


Pressure - Septiplier

by abbys_chatty



Category: Septiplier - Fandom, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, America, Anxiety, Austin Texas, Austism, Awkwardness, Coffee Shops, Gay, Helping Each Other, Jack is poor, Jelix - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Teenagers, Therapy, i think they're cute, jack's parents are pretty homophobic, jacksepticeye - Freeform, mark is sad, romantic, soft bois, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:00:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 69
Words: 90,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24599413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbys_chatty/pseuds/abbys_chatty
Summary: Mark Fischbach grew up in a big city, where he was quickly diagnosed with severe anxiety and depression. As he grows older, he becomes more and more isolated from others. The older he gets, the more he blames himself for the cracks in his friendships and family- the walls of his life crumbling down and crushing him.Sean McLoughlin grew up in a small town out in the countryside with his immigrant parents and an ever-growing family. As he grows older, he takes on more and more roles in the family. The older he gets, the more responsibility he places on his shoulders- a constant heavy balancing act, weighing him down and crushing him.When Sean's family moves to the big city for better job opportunities, their lives intertwine and begin to drastically change, hopefully for the better.
Relationships: Mark Fischbach/Sean McLoughlin
Comments: 235
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter One

Mark hops out of the car, laughing happily as he chases after his brother, slipping through the open gate and hopping over the edge of the playground. The mulch crunches under his feet as laughter rings through the air- shouts of joy and happiness as children play on the playground. The sun shines down and gently warms the boy's skin as he pants softly, stopping in the central area where a group of kids, ages ranging from around five to ten, are gathering. He glances back, seeing his mother sitting on a nearby bench a bit away from the playground, watching absentmindedly.

"Let's play tag!" a girl around nine exclaims, hands on her hips decisively. Some kids agree, and some whine lightly, shaking their heads.

"No, I wanna play hide and go seek!" a boy, a little younger, says. Several more kids pipe up after the single dissent, and a huge debate starts up, no one listening, yet everyone talking. Mark stands quietly, wide eyes looking around the circle in shock at the volume level. He was the youngest, having only recently turned five. Therefore, he stands in the front of the ring so he can see, but now it feels like a trap, the loud voices and heated discussion beginning to overwhelm him.

"Guys! Stop it! Why don't we just... compromise?" Tom speaks out, yelling over everyone to be heard. All the kids quiet down, looking over at the eldest for his piece of wisdom. Mark lets out a quiet breath, shoulders relaxing as he gives his older brother a tiny smile of thanks. Tom sees it, glad he can help his little brother, who has always been shy and sensitive.

"Whaddya mean?" the first girl asks, crossing her arms and tilting her head in askance.

"Well, like... tag and hide and go seek. Both. So... someone starts out as the seeker, and everyone else goes and hides. Then, they search around, and whenever they find someone, they try to tag them. They run around, and if they escape, they hide again. If they can't, they become another seeker. Then, it just goes on and on, until only one person's left," Tom explains to the now thoughtful group of kids. A few of them shuffle, kicking up the mulch and drawing in it with their toes as they think. A lot of them nod in agreement, and Tom's idea is approved.

"Last person sitting is it!" a boy shouts, and everyone scrambles to fall to the ground. Mark has it easy, being the smallest there, and he giggles at Tom's confused expression.

"You're it, Tommy," he giggles teasingly, playing with a few pieces of mulch absentmindedly. The other kids laugh in agreement, and Tom playfully glowers at them all. The group slowly stands up after making sure Tom knows he's it, and they set the counting time. Thirty seconds.

"Alright, y'all better go hide. It's gonna be a short game," Tom says with a smirk, teasing them before their dissents raise up. "He better keeps his eyes closed," "he better count with Mississippi's in-between," "he ain't gonna find me!"

"One Mississippi!" Tom yells, cutting them off and beginning to count with his eyes tightly closed. The kids all scream and laugh, turning and sprinting off, playfully pushing each other. Mark runs with them, sneakily slipping under one of the playground platforms. No one else would be able to fit, and he wiggles under, looking up through the small holes in the platform. Mark pushes mulch up along the edge, hiding behind the tiny wall he quickly makes. He works on slowing down his tired, adrenaline-filled breaths, eyes shining brightly with excitement as he slows his breathing. The small holes give him just enough sight to kind of know what's going on, and he knows for sure, no one is going to think to look beneath such a small platform.

"Ready or not, here I come!" Tom calls, and Mark hears the nearby crunching of mulch as Tom slowly walks in his direction. The slow, measured steps are the movements of a hunter, searching for his prey. Mark holds his breath, heart hammering in his chest as he freezes, knowing the slightest sound could give him away.

"Gah! Found you!" Tom exclaims, the voice practically in Mark's ear as he flinches, almost yelling out in surprise, as another kid squeals. There's a slight scuffle as she tries to get out from beneath the bottom of the slide, but Tom tags her shoulder before she can escape. She huffs, pouting as she climbs out.

"I saw someone go thataway," she offers, pointing in Mark's direction, but he can't see it.

"Kay, you go the other way, and I'll look around," Tom says with a nod, turning and walking towards Mark's hiding spot. The crunch of mulch draws ever closer and stops directly to Mark's right. Tom's shadow falls over Mark, who waits with bated breath, lungs burning for air. Tom steps up onto the platform, standing directly over Mark and looking around. Mark sees his brother's head turn in each direction, looking around with sharp eyes, but he never looks down. Tom eventually moves on, and the little boy relaxes, finally breathing a bit.

"Get him!" the girl suddenly yells, chasing after a small boy sprinting away from her and inadvertently toward Tom. Mark flinches as the boy jumps up onto the platform, feet hammering down on it as he races onto the next one. The shadow leaves as another grows, several more thuds shaking the pieces of grass and mulch that barely hung by threads from the bottom side of the platform. The girl's shadow covers Mark's vision as she sprints by, a few pieces of grass falling loose and onto Mark's face. He whimpers quietly, feeling the dead plants on him. Gross, it feels gross. The space he's in begins to be too small. He can't lift his arms to wipe off his face. He tries to shake it off, but the dead pieces of plant cling to him.

There's a nearby squeal as another kid is caught, and soon, hammering feet run over his hiding spot every few seconds. Mark tries to open his mouth to breathe, but there are grass and mulch on his lips. He breathes through his nose, struggling for air. Turning his head, Mark gets a few things off, spitting the rest out before another kid runs past, a piece of grass falling directly into his ear. He tries to stay quiet, wiggling around in panic and struggling to move, loud laughter and screams echoing out as the game devolved into just tag for almost everyone else.

Mark begins to cry, flinching with the loud noises. He's trapped. He's stuck here. Only black shadows running past. He can't get out. The grass is almost in his eye. He hates this. Get it off, get it off. He can't move. He tries to breathe, tears leaking tracks down to his temples as he panics, struggling for air. The little boy shifts, beginning to flail around, only for his hand to hit the metal support post with a heavy clang, and he yells out, sobbing and writhing about.

"M-mommy?!" Mark cries through his panicked breaths. No one can save him. No one else can fit. He's hidden by mulch, he's trapped. Mark tries to breathe, but it comes so fast, he's hyperventilating. He feels light-headed. His hand throbs in pain. The grass tickles his face in such a horrible way.

"Mark?!" Tom exclaims, looking down as he stands over the platform, having heard his little brother's cry and searched for him. The little boy hardly hears him, sobbing and gasping for air. His chest burns and he tries to claw at his chest, but his hand hits the top of the platform because it's too small for that movement. He cries out, voice strangled with pain and terror.

"Mom! Mom! It's Mark!" Tom calls, turning and running towards their mother. His mom stands, rushing over towards Tom, who leads her back, pointing to under the platform. Mark hiccups, gasping for air in between his sobs, hiccups, and tears. He can't get it off of his face, his hand hurts, he's trapped. Tom and his mother crouch down, digging away the mulch and looking into the small gap at the little boy.

"Marky? Come here, focus," his mom says softly and firmly, but Mark can't hear it. His breaths are high, rasping and scratching at his throat. His chest burns. His heart pounds in his ears. She reaches in, laying on her stomach and slipping her arms under Mark's armpits, wiggling her way back and slowly pulling Mark out. The boy jerks up as soon as he's free, clawing at his chest with one hand, hitting grass off his face with the other.

"It hurts! It hurts!" he gasps, sobbing and struggling for air, his vision blurry with tears and dizzy from lack of air.

"Mark! Calm down!" his mother says seriously, hugging the boy close. Mark screams, trying to pull away, but she only hugs him tighter. "Breathe in slowly, slow down your breathing!" she orders firmly. The boy's eyes are wide and panicked, tears streaking down his face, body trembling and shaking with each drag of an inhale and punch of an exhale. He slowly, very slowly begins to calm down as reality comes back. His mother wipes off the remaining mulch and grass from her son's hair and face, hugging him tightly enough to keep him still.

The other kids watch, looking on with confusion as Mark slowly comes down from his panic attack. The mulch crunches under their feet as they shift nervously, the playground quieting with uncertainty and nervousness as children stand stock-still. The sun shines down and warms the little boy's skin as he pants softly. He closes his eyes and clings to his mother, who hugs him tightly, terror for her youngest son in the rapid beating of her heart. Tom stands to the side, just as confused as the other kids. Mark's chest still burns, and so do his eyes as hot tears drip down, clinging to his small lashes. Everything is frozen with confusion, everyone is quiet with shock.


	2. Chapter Two

Sean climbs up into the chair, children's book clenched tight in his hands as he sits down in a chair meant for a far larger person. He turns, short legs swinging as he sets the big book in his lap. The little boy carefully opens it up, the spine bending with a soft sigh, certainly well-worn from years of use. The old pages of the beloved book fall open with a faint flutter, settling on a random image. Sean gazes over the unique, textured looking artwork before him, a light smile on his small lips as he runs his hand over the flat, glossy page. The artwork almost seems to jump out, a texture of its own, and the colors of the blocky style are vivid and bright.

"Aren't the animals gorgeous?" Granny says softly, leaning over from her seat and gazing at the picture. Sean nods exaggeratedly, grinning up at her.

"Like the fox best," he says happily, turning the pages and pointing at the beautifully done work. The cuts and creases of colored tissue papers are shaped and photographed into the soft, thick, bushy tail of a fox with the right angles and colors. The playful curve of the tail and the combination of colors stand out above the others to the young boy.

"You like the fox the most," she gently corrects, and Sean giggles, nodding.

"Why are we waiting out here for Mama and Papa?" Sean asks, looking around the hospital waiting room. The walls are stark white. A few paintings of different flowers break up the monotony. Chairs and couches fill the room, along with some coffee tables, where magazines, books, and children's toys sit neatly stacked up. Small plants give the room more life, in the corners and sitting atop tables. The television in the corner is playing a brightly colored children's show. Someone has turned down the volume, making it inaudible. People of all sorts fill the seats, from the young to the old, the restless to the weary. Despite their differences, everyone here waits anxiously for news. For everyone, there is little peace in the waiting room. Only with the very young, who don't understand the gravity of hospital visits, does the waiting room hold no weight. Sean himself still doesn't grasp these things well.

"Well, we're waiting for Mama to have Allison. Your little sister is coming today," Granny explains, fingers drumming along the armrest of her chair.

"But we already got Simon," Sean says, pointing over at his baby brother, sitting in Grampy's lap.

"Well, Mama and Papa love you two so much, they want another one of you all," Granny explains. Sean ponders it for a moment before nodding.

"Will Mama be alright? Allison made her tummy really fat. Do they have to cut her out?" Sean asks, nose wrinkling.

"Only if it starts going bad," Granny says. "Mama will be fine."

"Okay!" Sean says brightly, turning his attention back to his book. Simon starts fussing softly, fidgeting and clinging to Grampy's finger, absolutely refusing to let go as he wiggles and whines anxiously, smacking his lips together and kicking his pudgy feet. He's getting hungry.

"Try the apple sauce squeeze packet dear," Granny says to her husband, and consequently, the five-year-old perks up, setting the book aside and climbing down.

"I'll get it!" Sean exclaims, rushing over to their big bag of food and entertainment, packed up for the two kids. He crouches down, his small fingers fumbling with and eventually unclasping the latch to the bag, digging through the thoughtfully packed contents. After pulling out a few baggies of crayons, a jacket, and a few small toys, the little boy finds the apple sauce packets. Sean pulls them out before carefully putting the other things back, and the bag looks lumpier than before, but the boy manages to still close it. He climbs to his feet, shuffling back over quickly and leaning against Granny's legs, handing her the packet meant for Simon. Sean pulls himself back into his chair and opens his pouch, blue eyes glimmering with hunger. Simon quiets as he's fed, cooing softly as he clutches the packet. Sean gazes around as he eats, legs swinging buoyantly.

After about an hour or so of waiting, watching people filter in and out and playing with different toys, a man wearing a white coat steps in and calls out their last name. Grammy takes Sean's hand, shouldering the bag of things for the kids as Grampy carries Simon. They make their way back through the hospital to get to his parents. The austere white halls smell of cleaner and antiseptic, and Sean wrinkles his nose at the sharp smells. To distract himself, he begins leaning around and trying to peer into people's rooms, curious as to what all was going on, the beeping noises, and hushed murmurs drawing his attention. Granny gently raps him on the side of the head, reprimanding him and telling him it's rude. So, the boy stops, his focus shifting to the yellow line of tiles that ran straight down the middle of the hallway, following the yellow brick road all the way to the Emerald City. Sean let's go of Granny's hand, hopping about on the path of tiles made just for him. He wobbles, giggling slightly as he tries to stay balanced on the line for a bit.

"Sean, come here! We're going to see Mama," Granny calls as the door to one of the rooms swings open, his father answering with a tired smile.

"Come on in, everything went great," he greets, pressing a kiss to Simon's forehead as the toddler is toted past.

"Good to see you, Connor," Grampy says with a smile, carrying Simon into the room. His dad smiles and nods before he turns to Sean, beckoning him over.

"Papa! Did Mama have Allison?" Sean asks as he runs over, excitement in each small step until he leaps forward, launching himself into his father's embrace as the man laughs. Sean feels the strong arms wrap around him, picking the small boy up and carrying him. The door swings shut behind them with a click as his dad nods in confirmation.

"Yup. You wanna go meet Allison, kiddo?" Connor asks his son sweetly, carrying him towards the bed where his mom lay, her hair a mess with her newborn daughter cradled in her arms. The grandparents are already crowding the bed, cooing and fawning over the latest addition to the McLoughlin family. Simon stares blankly at the baby, a dull gaze in his bright blue eyes as he processes the new information. It's a lot for the toddler who is still struggling with even two-word ideas.

"This is Allison, she's your new baby sister," Connor explains to his eldest son, gently setting Sean down. The young boy stands on his toes, tugging on the frame of the bed to try and see. He peers over the mattress up to his mother and his new sister, bright blue eyes shining with curiosity. Shannon smiles softly, brushing her hair from her face and carefully tilting Allison just enough that Sean can see her.

"Isn't she adorable? You've got to be a doubly good big brother now since you've got two siblings now, not just one," Shannon says jokingly to her eldest son, though a hint of truth rings deep in her gentle tone. Sean nods rapidly in understanding, reaching forward to rest his small palm on the infant's cap. He brushes his hand over the soft cotton and smiles happily at the newest McLoughlin, feeling the delicate skin with the pads of his fingers as he runs his hand across her forehead. She has blue eyes, just like the rest of them, and the same pale skin. Her button nose fits right in with the family, along with the dark strands of hair Sean sees peeking out from beneath the cap.

"Imma be doubly good," Sean avows, looking at his two younger siblings with love, and a spark of strength in his characteristic blue eyes. He was going to be the best big brother he could possibly be to his little siblings.


	3. Chapter Three

Mark clings to his mother's hand as they step into the building. With wide eyes, he takes in the waiting area: warm-toned walls, chairs lining the edges, a few neutral decorations. Nothing immediately catches his eye. It is all somewhat bland and inoffensive. There is nothing bold, neither modern nor old.

"Is this the therapy place?" he asks, and his eyes flit up at his mother, who nods with a soft smile that does not quite reach her dark, anxious eyes. She gently guides him over and tells him to take a seat in one of the many chairs. Mark climbs up into the one in the corner. He sits with his legs stiff, a foot wrapped around the other ankle, hands tucked beneath his thighs. He feels a tightness in his gut. His thoughts flashback to his mom's smile earlier; it had not felt right- she was nervous. The realization only makes Mark shift about, and he wriggles about in his seat as he stares about the room with his brows furrowed. A few people stare back blankly. Others quickly look away. They shift uncomfortably under the boy's gaze. He is the youngest in the room by at least two decades. Mark bites his lip, his chest tightens up, and his mind hurls through thoughts.

He was such a freak. This place was for grown people. This building is not meant for him. He is so abnormal compared to other kids that they had to go to a grown place where adults went for help, not children. He is such a burden. His mom was nervous. Her smile flashes through his mind. It never reached her eyes. He was the reason. He caused her so many problems. There is a rustle to his side, and he whirls around to see his mom sit down beside him after she had finished checking in. She sucks in a deep breath, but the way her shoulders sag makes it seem as if the air that fills her lungs does more to suck the life out, rather than rejuvenate. Mark whimpers and wriggles in his seat, trying to take a breath as his heart quickens. Someone rustles a magazine. Another coughs harshly. The abrupt sounds startle him further.

"What's wrong, dear?" his mother asks softly, and the corner of her lips crease down; the lines of her face sharpen with worry. Mark shifts, and he whimpers again as tears well up. He struggles to breathe. He begins to gasp for air, but his throat closes on itself before the inhale can make its way down. It curdles in his throat, the rush of his mind leaves essential bodily functions out of the equation as Mark grapples with his thoughts. He gags on the air and begins to sob between his cracked, broken breaths.

"Mark. Calm down. Deep breaths." his mother urgently directs. She feels the cold grip of panic claw at her heart. She does not know what to do. She did not know her child would be this way. She had not planned for it. She was unprepared for Mark, but she is doing her best. She knows she cannot help him, so she takes him to a therapist. But the therapist is not here at this moment, and she is clueless. Everyone in the room begins to stare. A woman shifts and looks away. A man covers his mouth and squeezes his eyes closed. Mark's actions, the feelings, the breaths were all too familiar to them. These people cannot help- as much as they want to.

"Mark Fischbach?" a voice calls as the dark brown door to the side swings open. The man is in a slate grey suit, dark hair combed back, and a purple tie tucked into the jacket. A silver watch glints on his wrist and the product in his hair glint with the light.

"Please, help!" his mother begs as her gaze darts up to the man. She is desperate. Mark clutches at his throat and gasps for air. Each breath tears through his throat, but it never seems to fill his lungs. They remain empty and dry.

The man's eyes bulge as he hurries over. His shoes rap against the wood, and the boy closes his eyes at the sharp sounds. He crouches down and looks up at Mark. He rests his hands on the boy's knees; his calm eyes look up and meet the panicked gaze of Mark's.

"Take a deep breath with me, you're safe, you're perfectly all right- inhale with me," he says before he takes in a deep breath. Mark chokes out a sob and claws at his throat. He shakes his head to explain that he cannot. "Imagine your lungs, imagine filling your lungs up with air like a balloon. Only you can blow up your lungs, breathe in," the therapist says. He repeats the same word several times to drill it into Mark's head. Whatever is going on, it is imperative that he shifts the boy's focus from whatever was the cause of the panic.

Mark whimpers and closes his eyes. He does as the man directed. Two red balloons in his chest and he forces a breath in. The balloons expand a minuscule amount before he has already exhaled, and they shrink. Mark shakes his head, hands move to his chest, and he claws at his shirt. The boy sucks in a breath, fills the balloons some more, and with the sound of the therapist breathing with him, and the gentle direction from the man, Mark eventually calms down. The man pats Mark's knees before he stands and steps back a bit. He lets out a quiet exhale and subtly observes Mark.

Mark looks at the man then looks back at his mother. He sees her stand, sees her gather her purse, sees her reach out for his hand, and his gut tightens. He clambers out of the chair and grabs his mother's hand in a tight grip. His small fingers cling to her thin ones with the clutch of someone struggling for balance. After the pair is ready, Mark looks back to the man.

"Hello Mark, my name is Josh Mosher," he greets as he kneels to the boy's level. Mark presses against his mother's side. He stares at the man with wide eyes before he turns and buries his face into his mom's hip.

"He's quite shy," his mother explains softly, and the adults exchange pleasantries before the man guides them to his office. Mark tries not to cry as he tries to stay behind, but his mother picks him up. She soothes him with soft words as they walk down the hallway and take a turn into a room. The walls are painted a cool grey, softer than the man's suit, with white decor, and a blue orchid flower on the table. Along with that, there are a few toys: a Rubix cube, a slinky, a fidget spinner, and a fidget cube. She sets Mark down, and the boy whines with anxiety. He immediately tries to crawl up to her lap, but she gently reprimands him to sit next to her properly. The adults talk for a bit before his mother stands. Mark makes to stand, and she shakes her head.

"No, Mark. You're staying here to talk with Mr- Sorry, with him," she says to her son. The boy gazes up at her with his big innocent eyes. They glisten with the pain of abandonment and the fear of change- a deep set of emotions far too strong for someone so young. She bites her lip, leans down, presses a kiss to his forehead, and walks out. She had been directed not to describe the therapist to Mark in any way. Do not call him "Mr. Mosher" or "Mr. Josh." Do not say, "he's a nice man." Do not say, "don't worry." The doctor did not want Mark to be influenced by anyone. The door clicks shut behind her, and Mark stares after it. He imagines his mother as she walks back down the hall. Her heels click sharply, and the coat whirls around her as her hair bounces gently on her shoulders. She is the epitome of firm, definite elegance.

"So, Mark, how are you?" the therapist asks and the boy's attention shifts back to the room. He shifts a bit, then tucks his hands beneath his thighs.

"Fine," he mumbles as his eyes pick a spot on the ground. A piece of lint lies on the wooden floor, unassuming. He decides it is the best thing to stare at if he wants to avoid the gaze of the adult.

"Tell me about yourself? What do you do for fun? What's school like? What's your favorite movie?" the man's soft voice asks; he leans back in his chair, posture relaxed and nonthreatening. Mark shifts a bit and bites his bottom lip.

"I like to play with Tommy. Nobody likes me at school. I liked Inside Out," Marks mumbles after a moment of deliberation.

"Who is Tommy?" the therapist asks, jotting down a few quick notes.

"My older brother. He's really cool," Mark says softly. He visibly relaxes, his shoulders untense, breaths slower, as he talks about Tom.

"Oh? What do you guys do together?"

"We play video games. I don't like the shooting ones though, they're too loud. But Guitar Hero is cool."

"You don't like the shooting ones?"

"Yeah, too crazy," Mark mumbles as he shifts. His hands curl up into fists beneath his thighs. The conversation continues in this manner. The therapist has to work to get things out of Mark, but the boy remains mute, until the man tries a different tactic.

"Do you like Legos, Mark?"

"Yeah."

"I've got some. Let's just build some stuff for a bit," the therapist says with a smile. He pulls out a box of legos from a cabinet and sets it on the floor. Mark shifts to sit on the floor next to the man. He begins to connect the bricks together, and the pair starts to build a house.

"Hey Mark, I was wondering what happened in the waiting area before I called you back?" he asks.

Mark rolls a Lego in his hand. He chews on his lip. The energy in the room tenses. He tries to keep his heart rate down and to keep his mind calm, but the question pulls him back to the worry on his mother's lips and the pain in the lines on her face.

"I just felt bad, my mom was feeling bad, and it's my fault," Mark mumbles.

"Why is it your fault?"

"Cause I always think too fast and I can't breathe, and Mommy and Daddy don't know what to do," the boy whispers. He thinks of all the attacks, the terror on his parent's faces. The fake smiles when they try to act like it is not a big deal- that Mark does not scare them, that they are not scared for him. But, he sees the fear, and he sees how it grips them. In the way they question him about each day at kindergarten. How they act calm, but there a timbre in their voice that wavers with dread.

"What type of stuff do you think?" the therapist asks, his voice soft and earnest, but he keeps his eyes away from Mark. He continues to work on the Lego house, and he does everything in his power not to scare the boy. The click of two pieces being put together and torn apart over and over sounds out. Mark thinks and fiddles with them as he looks off to the side. He rubs an eye for a moment and tries not to cry. He keeps his head down and turns it away from his therapist. He wants to hide his face.

"No one likes me. I'm weird. No one can help me. No one cares," the boy whispers. His voice is high, and it wavers as he talks. He takes a shuddering breath, clicking and unclicking the lego pieces again. The therapist nods slightly to himself, gently setting the tissue box next to the kid. The conversation continues, and Mark explains his anxiety attacks from his perspective. They talk about colors, and people, and sound, and sleep. Mark never lets go of the two lego bricks as they talk. He presses them together and rips them apart a few times between each answer, or in the pauses of his talking. After about an hour, their conversation wraps up, then turns back to the more simple toys in front of them. After it has died down, the therapist stands.

"I'll be back with your mom in a minute, just keep on playing, Mark," the therapist says with a light smile to the boy.

"Okay, bye Mr. Josh," Mark says. Over the hour, he has relaxed much more and trusts the man. His eyes stay glued to the intense build he's working on right now as Josh leaves and gets his mother. Mark plays with the bricks. There is no conversation, only the soft clicks of the toys and his quiet mutters. After about five minutes, the door swings open. His mom and Mr. Josh step in, Mark looks up, and his mother dabs a tissue to the corner of her eyes. She keeps her head high and turns it away from her son. She wants to hide her face.

"Mark, I have a present for you," Mr. Josh says with a gentle smile to the young boy. He goes over to his desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out a small object. It is a tiny black box that easily fits the palm of his hand. He walks over, crouches down, and hands it to the boy. Mark takes it and turns it over in his small hands before pressing down on it. The top half of the box is a button. When he presses down, a small click sounds out. It is louder than the Legos but less mechanical and shrill than a pen. He pulls it close to him, hands in his lap as he clicks it again. His head tilts to the side and he looks up at Mr. Josh in askance.

"So Mark, whenever you're feeling bad, or you're thinking too fast, this little clicker can help," the therapist says with a gentle smile, "Just press the button, and whenever you hear the click, you need to try and focus on something different. Take a deep breath, think a positive thought, count to five. Anything that's slower than whatever is happening," Mr. Josh explains.

Mark shifts slightly and nods. His gaze is stuck on the clicker as he rolls it between his hands. Would it actually help?

"So, let's practice. Press the button?" Mr. Josh directs gently. Mark nods and clicks it. The sound resounds out and he bites his lip.

"So, then you would take a deep breath, inhale for four seconds," he says, and the boy nods. Together, the pair inhale, and Mr. Josh holds up his fingers, counting to four. "Now exhale for four," he says, and the pair does so. Mark giggles afterward, wiggling a bit.

"Kind of silly," he laughs softly, pressing the clicker a few more times.

"Yes, it's a bit silly, but I think it will really help you. Just remember to actually do it, otherwise, it'll be useless, right?" he says gently to the kid. Mark nods and gazes down at the small object that already symbolizes so much. He slips it into his pocket and pats it through the denim to reassure himself it is there.

"Why do I have the bad thoughts?"

"Well, you have something called anxiety and depression. All it means is your brain works a bit differently. You think faster, and you have less of the stuff in there that makes people happy. It doesn't mean you're defective. It just means you have to work a bit harder than everyone else to feel good," Mr. Josh explains. The boy gazes at him with an empty stare, brows furrowed. His brain was empty of happy? What? The therapist sees his confusion and smiles lightly. He looks around, leans forward, and picks up a small spaceship Mark had made with the Legos.

"You like space, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, so imagine people are rockets. Most people start off with a full fuel tank. They use that fuel and can go really far. You just started off with a bit less fuel in your tank. So, you have to work a bit harder. Astronauts like me and your parents can help steer and angle you with methods and assistance so that you can go the same distance as all the other rockets. We just need to teach you, and implement some techniques like the one I showed you to help you get that far," he hands Mark the ship, a soft smile on his lips as his eyes twinkle with affection for the child.

"So I just have to study piloting more to be as good?" Mark asks, brows still furrowed. He gets the metaphor, and he appreciates it. The metaphor helps him understand his mind better.

"You are just as good as everyone else, Mark. Having the wrong fuels in your tank just makes it a bit harder for you to do some things. It doesn't mean you're 'less than' others, it just means you're different," Mr. Josh clarifies. The boy nods and wraps the ship in his hands. He turns it over a few times and shifts a bit, takes a big breath, looks up, and smiles.

"Thanks, Mr. Josh," he says sweetly. Mark stands and hugs him. Right now, the boy's head only reaches the man's stomach. The therapist gives Mark a doting smile and hugs back gently.

"Of course, Mark. I'm here to help you," he reassures, and the boy's mind calms, the whirling currents slow, and the tranquil hope of happiness wells up. He is not broken; he just works differently. He can still fly like everyone else.


	4. Chapter Four

Sean stands and toddles from his bedroom, Elmo plushy in tow as he walks into the small living room. He climbs onto the couch and sinks back into the old, worn cushions. The boy hugs the plushy close and runs his hands through the delicate "fur" of the red toy. After a moment, he leans over and grabs the remote. Sean tries to press the power button, but the screen doesn't light up. With a huff of annoyance, he stands, leaving Elmo behind as he toddles over and presses the button on the old television. After a moment, it lights up, and he hurries back to his seat on the couch.

Giggles fill the room as he leaps back onto the couch, the dilapidated cushions almost wheezing beneath him. Sean grabs Elmo and rolls back into a normal sitting position as the Sesame Street theme song plays. Perfect, he's just in time. Sean cuddles into the run down cushions and hugs his worn plushy as he giggles, and counts, and spells, and sings with the show. His blue eyes sparkle with joy as he watches. These characters were his friends; they taught him a lot and were always really nice. Sean would be starting kindergarten soon, and the only reason he wasn't leagues behind the other kids was this show, and all the children's books the company produced. His parents couldn't afford to send him to pre-school, but they did their best to read to him and keep him at-level with his age group.

In the closed-off kitchen on the other side of the flimsy wall in the trailer, Sean hears hushed voices. His parents are discussing something. He flinches as he hears the harsher voice of his father and a rough thud on the table. His mom snaps back, but Sean can't understand the reply because of the show. He carefully stands, goes over to the t.v., and turns down the volume just a tiny bit. After a sprint back to the couch and a lunge to infinity and beyond, Sean melts into the cushions. Laying on his belly, he has his head turned to face the t.v., but he's much more focused on the conversation going on behind him.

"How the hell are we supposed to pay for these bills?" the deep voice of his dad mutters. There's a rustle of papers and a silence.

"I... I don't know. Our salaries just aren't cutting it anymore," his mom says quietly. Another silence.

"I'll take on another job," his dad offers. Sean shifts a bit and tilts his head to the side. Papa already works two jobs?

"No, no. You're the smarter of us two. You need to get that education. We've been saving for trade school, so you can become a mechanic. That's our best shot at getting out of all this," Shannon demurs. More papers rustle. Sean imagines Mama lifting up some envelopes and some other documents with lots of words and pointing to them.

"Who will take care of Alli?" Connor asks softly, deep tiredness in his voice. Sean feels the defeated timbre in his gut, and he hugs Elmo tighter. Why was Papa so sad?

"Well... umm... let's see. If I take on the job at Walmart, along with my CVS job, I'll cover what we currently have. Then... we take a loan out to pay for the hospital bills while you start your apprenticeship. And... and... Sean will be starting kindergarten... I can take Alli to work at CVS- my manager let me do it with Sean. Then... then... If I take the night shift at Walmart, you can take care of Alli and Sean at home while I work. I'll come home and sleep. You'll be off and out early for the schooling, and I'll get Sean to his school and Alli with me," Shannon says after a lot of thought.

Sean shifts about: Night shift? But what about bedtime stories and dinner?

"I guess that could work... Yeah..." Connor mutters. There is a bit of clicking and the scribble of pen on paper. "The math works out too. We should be able to pay off the loan in about two years if nothing bad happens," he says after a few minutes.

"Alright, that sounds like-"

A cry rises from their bedroom as Allison wakes up and cuts Shannon off. Simon is sleeping in his room with Jack, and they didn't want to wake him up either.

"I've got her," Connor sighs, the sound of a chair scrapes across the floor as he stands. Sean channels his focus entirely on the show as the heavy footfalls of his Pa approach. A rough hand tousles his hair affectionately as Papa passes. Sean watches his figure slip into the room to soothe Alli. He hears lighter footsteps and feels the cushions sink beside his head.

"How's Sesame Street today?" Shannon asks softly as she sits down on the couch. A gentle hand runs through his hair, lightly correcting her husband's affectionate gesture.

"Good. Talking about math today. Count von Count is showing Cookie Monster how to count his cookies, cause Cookie Monster didn't know how many he wanted to buy from the bake sale," Sean mumbles as he shifts closer and leans into his mother's touch.

"I'm glad Count can help Cookie Monster out," Shannon hums lightly. Sean giggles weakly and nods, but his mind is preoccupied. How can his parents act so kind, loving, and happy, when he knows how they really felt? They were sad and nervous because they didn't have money. Sean doesn't get it, they act happy around him, but money makes them sad. 

As mother and son sit together, watching the show wrap up, Sean makes a promise to himself; he would never be the thing that makes Papa's voice sound hollow and Mama's voice shaky. Sean would always be the thing that makes them smile; the thing that makes their breaths come easier and their shoulders relax. He wouldn't cause them money troubles- or any other troubles.


	5. Chapter Five

Mark unbuckles his booster seat belt, climbing out of the car before waiting as his mom opens up the driver's door and gets out as well. Mark sees his brother standing by the garage door, gathering up his swim bag and gear, t-shirt over his torso, and swim pants on. His brother is agitated, movements loud, and sharp, and hurried. Mark shakes his head sharply at the noise, trying to dislodge it from his brain.

"One second, Tommy, Mark has to use the restroom before we head back out," Mom says as she turns and scoops up the small boy to carry him inside faster. Mark wraps his arms around her neck, burying his face into the crook of her neck. She smells like eight hours of office work, perfume, and salty tears for her youngest son.

"We're gonna be late," Tom replies as he pushes his long, dark hair back from his forehead, standing upright with his bag slung over his shoulder. The ten-year-old has a swim practice at six o'clock. The practice is twenty-five minutes away. However, it's already ten till.

"I know, but Mark's appointment ran late," she calls back as she hurries inside. Mark uses the restroom while she gets some water and a snack for the small boy, grabbing him a book and his noise-canceling headphones as well.

"Can we get fruit snacks for Tommy?" Mark asks, gesturing to the small packets stowed away in the pantry and looking back at his mother. The corner of her lips turns up, and she ruffles his hair. 

"Sure, you can get them for him, kiddo."

Mark stands on his tippy toes and grabs the package, smiling lightly. He turns around, pausing as he sees Tom throwing his bag off to the side of the kitchen area. The thud and jostle of zippers ringing and clacking on the granite countertop hits the quiet of the kitchen. Mark blinks hard and rubs his eyes at the suddenness.

"We're always late because of Mark," he scowls as his brown eyes lock on his mother. His mom purses her lips, brow furrowing.

"Well, Mark needs a lot of help right now," she replies. Her voice is calm but rides the edge of anger. A few syllables stab through, pinching Mark's thoughts, and he bites his lip. The small boy draws in a shaky breath, crinkling the fruit snacks in his grasp.

"But he's not the only one. He's always put first," Tom hisses. Neither of them acknowledges Mark. He's clearly not a part of this, even though he's the subject of debate.

"Well, Tom, when you start blacking out because of asphyxiation from anxiety, perhaps we can renegotiate," his mother snaps. Her adult, business voice emerges: big words, sharp tone.

"My life is getting screwed over too!" Tom cries, brows furrowed and eyes squinting. His chest heaves underneath his crossed arms, and each breath shudders in.

Mark observes for a moment before he closes his eyes, his body appearing to replicate his brother's emotions as he feels his breathing pick up. His chest aches. It's tight, and it hurts. They're scaring him. He doesn't want Tommy to hate him. He tries to whimper, tries to tell Mom, but no sound comes out. It dies against his parched tongue and tight larynx.

"Well, Mark isn't able to live a life at all!" His mother cries out, tears welling up in her dark brown eyes. "He can't go a day without crying, without gasping for a breath! He's hurting!" She adds, a few unwanted tears sinking down her cheeks. Tom quiets, in shock at seeing his mom crumble down, but the sound of Mom crying only makes Mark's attack worse. He squeezes his eyes closed, hands traveling to his heart. The package of fruit snacks crinkles as he presses his hands and the pack to his chest, feeling the painful beating. His chest is constricted, each thought and breath seems to strain against the tightness, only to be choked away. He struggles for oxygen.

Tom turns away from the two, grabbing his bag and storming to the car to save face. Emotions are too much, and he despises that he feels angry and guilty at the same time. Multi-faceted, complex, emotional discussion isn't exactly a ten-year-old's forte. Mark feels tears dribble down his own cheeks as he heaves for air, choking on the thick tension in his family. There's a delicate sniffle, and then Mark's mom turns around with a rustle of fabric, sighing softly at the sight of her panicking son.

"Mark, kiddo, let's calm down. Everything's fine," she murmurs, crouching down. She reaches forward, soft hands cupping his small cheeks. A thumb brushes beneath his eye, and he feels his tears smear as he hiccups, holding onto his chest.

"Take a deep breath," she says softly, acting it out as well. They hold the breath and then exhale at a slow pace. Mark's exhale is shaky, interrupted by a hiccup.

"Now use your clicker at the end of the exhale. Click it and tell me one shape you see," his mother explains softly, remembering some of the therapist's directions. The little boy feebly digs for the clicker in his pocket. He opens his eyes and presses the button.

Click.

"Square," Mark sniffles, looking at her dangling earring that glimmers in the bright kitchen lighting.

"Good, now click it again and find me a… circle," she directs, her thin lips breaking into a tentative smile. Tears sit glimmering unshed in her eyes, diamonds waiting to drip down and adorn her cheeks.

Click.

"The water bottle," Mark mumbles as he points with a shaky hand to her water glass she had set on the counter when they'd come in for the quick bathroom break. His mom turns and glances at it with a soft smile, nodding. Her hair flounces, and she uses the moment with her countenance directed away to wipe her teary eyes. She turns backs, and diamond dust glitters on her cheekbones. His mother leans forward and presses a kiss to his forehead, fingers threading through his hair and holding him close with a loving, troubled grip.

"I'm sorry for making you cry, Mommy," he whispers. She shakes her head, her eyes closed, and the corners of her lips curl up, still tightly pursed together.

"Don't worry about me, baby. I'm just a bit stressed. I'll be perfectly fine, I promise. Just use your clicker and be observant. Find shapes and objects to keep you grounded whenever you feel yourself start panicking. Press the button with each new find. It should help, alright?" She says softly to her youngest child, deep-set eyes meeting the thin almond ones and crinkled brows of her worried son.

"Okay," he mumbles, rolling it over in his hand nervously. Mark shuffles his feet a bit and nods, crunching the fruit snacks before letting both hands drop to his sides.

"Let's go hop in the car," she hums, fixing the young boy's hair with a practiced, gentle hand. She stands and turns, the pair heading back out and getting in the car. The little boy buckles himself up into his car seat, and with a double-check from his mother, they start off. Tom glowers out the window for a bit before he shifts forward and turns on the radio.

"No, Tom, not right now," Mom says evenly, voice cool as she immediately turns it off.

"Why?" The boy asks, practically snarling.

"Because I said so! We will have this discussion later!" She hisses in response, sick of Tom testing her. She would calm down and explain it to him later when Mark isn't in the same room. At the moment, she doesn't trust herself to have this conversation without making the situation worse. Mark presses his clicker, watching from the back with the wide eyes of a young child. In the rearview mirror, her gaze finds him for just a moment before Mark has to look away. Another set of brown eyes catch the glance, and it's evidence enough for the jury of Tom’s heart to agree unanimously on the verdict. Tom scowls and crosses his arms, going back to glaring out the window of the passenger seat. With a cold finality, he adds one last comment.

"It's always about him," he condemns.

Click.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if something seems inaccurate. Mark should have high-functioning autism, coupled with some anxiety and depression. Let me know if whatever I write doesn't seem correct. His main autistic issue is sensory perception. He's not the best at picking up social cues, but it's not too bad. He's very routine, has set things he likes to do, avoids eye contact, and is quite shy.


	6. Chapter Six

As the gurgle of water swirling down the drain fills the bathroom, a small boy giggles and grins, trying to dodge the blue towel his dad holds in his hands.

"Papa! No! Like my hair like this!" Sean squeals, just managing to duck underneath his father's outstretched arms and scrambling to the other side of the tiny bathroom. This wasn't particularly strenuous for his father, as the man was putting in minimal effort. He relishes chasing Sean around just as much as Sean loves running about. However, he has to at least act like he cares, if not solely for the sake of watching his son squeal with the exhilaration of evading the inevitable doom of drying off.

"Gargh, we've got to get you all dry, so you don't get sick!" he declares, leaning forward to scoop up the boy. Sean wriggles out of his grasp, squealing and clambering around to the other side of him as he giggles happily.

"Papa! No!" he shrieks in his laughter as Connor inches closer. Before Sean can squirm away again, his father pulls an unexpected move. Connor smirks and tosses the towel at Sean, covering his head and torso with the big towel like a gladiator net in the Roman Coliseum. The little boy doesn't react fast enough, and suddenly he is entangled in the cloth, his plans foiled!

"I've got you now!" Connor trumpets with over-the-top pride, though the loving tenderness in his voice is always evident. He scoops up Sean, making sure the towel is still pinned well over the boy's head, before toting him off to the bedroom. Sean giggles in his arms, squirming around and attempting to wriggle away, but he knows the jig is up.

"Papa, want the pirate jammies," Sean proclaims through the towel, ultimately coming to a halt in his father's arms. Connor hums in acknowledgment and deposits Sean on the edge of the mattress. He thoroughly dries of the little boy with a soft smile on his thin lips.

"Were you good enough today to get the pirate jammies?" he queries lightly, teasing Sean.

"What? Yes! I did good today!" Sean exclaims in outrage before squealing and squirming about as his father makes a monster sound and gives him a tummy raspberry. His blue eyes twinkle with affection as he finally yanks the towel off with a flourish. Sean giggles breathlessly, hugging his arms around himself and shivering. He hates to admit it, but Papa is right- it's cold when he's a wee bit wet.

"Get your undies on Sean," Connor hums, tossing a pair of kid's underwear over to Sean before digging through the dresser for the infamous pirate jammies. The boy executes the order as told before standing, jumping about on the bed in anticipation of his favorite jammies. Connor rises with a flourish, brandishing the beloved night-time clothing item, and Sean hollers with excitement, giving his best pirate imitation. Connor helps make sure Sean gets dressed properly, giving his hair another glance over, guiding him through brushing his teeth, and then finally settling the boy in for the night. The tiny twin bed isn't large by any means, but Connor manages to squeeze on to sit on the side of it, softly smiling down at his son.

"No bedtime story?" Sean asks, his brows furrowing in confusion over his blue eyes. They seem stormy at the moment, a flurry of misunderstanding and disappointment.

"Well, Mama got a new job working right now, so she won't be around to read your bedtime story anymore. Since she's not around, I've got to keep an eye on all three of you buggers, Alli, Simon, and you," Connor says, tapping the tip of Sean's nose lovingly.

"But bedtime story," Sean replies, gazing up at his father with big, blank, expectant eyes.

"I can't read to you right now, Sean. I still have to get Simon all set and ready for bed, and you know he's still a lot of work. It's Simon's bath day, so it's even more work. I'll try to read to you tomorrow, alright?" Connor replies with a soft smile to his son, but he can't hide how his blue eyes seem to turn more stormy with sadness, just like his son's. He wishes so profoundly that he could have the wonderful bonding time reading gives them.

"Pinky promise?" Sean asks, holding up a pinky. Connor chuckles a bit and leans forward, pressing a kiss to the little boy's forehead as his hand gently puts Sean's down.

"I won't make a guarantee, but I can promise that I will try my best to make time to read you a story. Though it might come out of bathtime with Pirate Ducky," he warns, carding a hand through his son's hair.

"Not Pirate Ducky!" Sean exclaims, a mortified expression on his small features.

"We'll just have to see, hm?" Connor hums, carefully ensuring the blankets were all tucked up to Sean's liking. The man leans over, snatching something from the floor and then offering it out to Sean. The little boy gasps in shock as he stretches forward, seizing his favorite plushy. The red fur is perfectly fine, and those big eyes are still intact. 

"He was on the ground?!" he almost shrieks.

"Hush Sean, relax, it's bedtime, so we use our night-time, inside voices," Connor gently reprimands before adding, "He fell off when you were bouncing around in your jammies. But don't worry, he's still in tip-top shape," his father reassures. Sean nods, and his blue eyes scan over the Elmo plush. Nothing seems out of place, just the usual loose threads at the seams.

"Thank you, Papa," he murmurs, hugging the plushy tight and tucking Elmo to his chest beneath his chin protectively.

"Of course, kiddo. Have a good night," his dad replies softly, smiling lovingly, albeit tiredly at his eldest son.

"G'night Papa," Sean yawns, slanting into his blankets as he relaxes. His father leans over, pressing another gentle kiss to his forehead, patting the boy's shoulder, and standing. He turns and walks to the door, checking on Sean one last time before reaching out and turning off the lights.

Click.


	7. Chapter Seven

"Hey Mark, how are you, kiddo?" Mr. Josh asks with a smile to the young boy as they walk back to his office. Mark gives the man a small shrug, hugging his arms around himself. He stares at the wooden floor as they walk down the hall. While he kind of likes Mr. Josh, this place is still new and foreign to him. Today, Mr. Josh has on a blue tie- a pocket of deep ocean tucked primly under slate lapels.

Everyone situates themselves in the office, Mark's mother on the couch, and Mr. Josh in his chair. Mark plops down on the ground and instantly begins to play with the Legos, already spread out and ready. He builds a starship, Mr. Josh talks, Mom listens.

"So, in Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, the goal is to change the mindset of the patient and discover how one's thoughts affect their behavior. With Mark, and with most patients with anxiety, they struggle with their thoughts running rampant. All it takes is one negative thought, and they begin to spiral endlessly- down into darker and darker thoughts, and all too soon, they're so caught up they can't breathe, they can't think clearly; their mind just magnifies those few negative thoughts over and over again," Mr. Josh explains calmly. Mark's fingers clench a bit more tightly around the 6 by 1 piece he's holding. Six neat shiny plastic circles atop a skinny brick. He rubs his thumb over each of them. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

"How do you do that, how do you slow down his thinking?" Mom asks.

"Well, there are several methods. The main goal is to slow down the mind and to change those negative thoughts into positive or neutral ones. Slowing down the mind is actually the easy part. However, changing the thought process itself- doing the work at the core of where it all starts takes much longer," Mr. Josh answers confidently. He uses his hands to gesticulate a few motions, all very professional.

"What are some of those methods?" Mark's mother asks, furrowing her brows. She leans forward, hands clutching her purse tightly as she stares at the therapist. She wants answers, she needs answers, so she can fix Mark, so her little boy won't cry anymore.

"Well, breathwork, meditation, identification of negative thoughts, and identification of unhelpful thinking styles are some of the things we can do right now to combat this. I also have some suspicions that he may have a high-functioning form of autism, which would explain why sounds and fast images overwhelm him. There is more that I can discuss in greater detail with you both later, but for now, would you please wait in the lobby, Mrs. Fischbach? I want to chat with Mark a bit," Mr. Josh answers with a polite, gentle smile. Mark glances up at his mom before turning his attention back to his starship, continuing to build. He's perfectly fine with her leaving- Mr. Josh is nice, and they get to play Legos.

His mother nods and grabs her purse, standing. With a gentle ruffle of her son's black curls, she heads out of the room, gently closing the door behind herself with a soft click.

"How are things going with the clicker, Mark?" Mr. Josh asks as he moves to sit on the floor, beginning to build with Mark. The boy's free hand moves to his pocket, ensuring the precious item is still there.

"Good. Mommy showed me how to use it when we got back to the house," he replies as he adds laser-shooters to the wings of his ship.

"How did she show you?"

"Tommy was mad at me 'cause I made him late for swim practice, and he was arguing with Mommy, and I couldn't breathe, and she helped me calm down, and she talked to me, and she told me to look for stuff, and I found a thing every time I pressed the button."

"That's very good, did you look for shapes, colors, numbers…?" Mr. Josh prompts as he connects a few bricks together.

"Shapes and colors. No numbers around," Mark answers calmly, adding on a pilot capsule, so the pilot isn't exposed to outer space.

"So, let's rewind a bit, you said Tommy was mad at you because you made him late for practice? How?" Mr. Josh queries, erecting a completed wall of his fortress.

There's a pregnant pause, and Mark turns the starship over and over in his hands.

"'Cause I had to come to therapy, so by the time we got back, he was late to practice."

"And how is that your fault?"

"I went to therapy?" Mark replies, his brows furrowing, and his lip pursing.

"Yes, you did come to therapy, but it's not your fault that it went a bit over time, and it's not your fault that you needed to come to therapy; just like it's not your fault that the only available time slot kind of conflicted with Tommy's practice. At that moment in time, were you in control of any of those things?"

It's quiet for a long moment.

"I shouldn't have needed to come," Mark adjudicates, accidentally breaking off a wing of his starship when he squeezes too hard. The lines of his forehead deepen with distress over the setback, and he focuses on that for a moment.

"Not necessarily. A lot of people come to therapy. For a lot of people, it's just as important as sleeping, eating, drinking, and all that, for a very long time. Because I'm going to give you some tools so that you can control your panic attacks, and you can control how you feel. Needing help to become a better person is something everyone needs," Mr. Josh says gently, looking over at the small boy.

"You can't control feelings. Things just happen," Mark states succinctly, leaning forward and digging for a specific lego piece.

"Mmm, I'm gonna have to disagree with you on that one, Mark. I think you can control how you feel, and it's all a matter of perspective and your thoughts about something. If you can control what you're thinking, then you can control what you're feeling," Mr. Josh replies. He leans over and hands Mark a black four by four, seeing the boy needs one for the structural stability of his starship. Mark taps the piece against the table as he speaks.

"But… you can't control what you're thinking. That's just… you," Mark dissents, the little boy's lips descending to a frown of frustration as he looks up at Mr. Josh for a moment- before looking back down. He adds the piece to his ship, only to press too hard and have part of the wing break off again.

"Actually, Mark, you can. Because your thoughts are not you. Think about it. When you get sad and think something bad about yourself, are you actually that thing? If you think to yourself that you're stupid during a panic attack, are you actually stupid? Because what I see is a bright, smart kid in front of me who's thinking about some really big things right now," Mr. Josh says gently. Mark stares at the ground, frowning and thinking. Why does Mr. Josh think he's smart? All Mark does is sit and cry all day. He thinks about stupid stuff too. Nobody else has to think about how to breathe. Everyone just knows how to do that. He doesn't notice his hands, crushing the starship in his palms, reducing it to rubble in his stress.

"Does that make sense?" Mr. Josh questions gently after a small moment of patient silence.

Mark shakes his head and dumps the broken starship on the table.


	8. Chapter Eight

The television murmurs in the background, on some nature channel while Sean sits at the table in the kitchen. Before him lies an array of crayons, their waxy rainbow bright against the worn wood. His legs swing off the chair as he leans over his paper, tongue tucked between his teeth as he colors. There’s a deep cough from the couch just on the other side of the thin trailer wall- long, hoarse, and violent.

Sean chooses bright colors; he likes them the best. At the moment, he’s drawing Cookie Monster, and the background is a rainbow. The green is too intense and clashes with the blue of the monster, but Sean likes the vivid colors. The rainbows are pretty. The television shuts off in the other room.

Shading isn’t a concept Sean understands yet, so his Cookie Monster is a giant blue blob, but he doesn’t care. He deems the artwork fabulous. Sean takes a pink and adds stars all over the rainbow background, humming some commercial song he got stuck in his head. There is a bit of rustling, then a few heavy footfalls. His dad appears in the doorframe, back bent with exhaustion, old quilt drawn around his shoulder, black bags under his eyes, and a reddened face.

“Sean, will you go sit in your room with Alli and Simon, please? Papa needs to go lay down,” Connor says, his voice crackling and hoarse.

“Can I keep coloring, Papa?” Sean asks, gazing up at his father with furrowed brows, pink crayon clenched tightly in his fist. Connor smiles weakly and opens his mouth to speak before he breaks into a fit of coughs. The sound fractures through the still room, rough and pained. Sean stares. After the man regains his voice, he straightens up and nods, smearing away the tears that swelled from the violent coughs.

“Of course, kiddo, but I need you to come run and get me if Simon or Alli makes any sort of fuss,” Connor answers, resting against the doorway for support. Sean nods, collecting his crayons and packaging them up. The wax cylinders clack together as he slots them into the box, carefully folding it shut once all crayons were safely tucked inside. The boy cradles the box and coloring pad close, delicately descending from his seat at the table and approaching his father.

“Are you sick, Papa?” Sean queries, peering up the great height, all the way to his father’s face. The man crouches down and kisses his son’s forehead.

“Only a little,” he lies, ruffling Sean’s hair. “You’re so good, Sean, thank you,” he murmurs, hugging his son close to his chest. The warm quilt envelops the both of them and it’s dark under there. Sean breathes in the smell of the detergent on his father’s clothes, hugging back with one arm as he clings to his coloring items. He can hear his dad’s lungs straining, a strange raspy gurgling in his throat and upper lungs. Connor closes his eyes, brows furrowed with exhaustion and uncertainty. It’s probably the flu- he has all the symptoms- but they can’t afford to go get an official test or any antiviral medication.

“I love you, Papa,” Sean announces, closing his eyes as he hugs his father. Connor smiles with weary joy, opening his eyes and gently pulling away from his son so he can look at him. Sean has his mother’s eyes, so bright with energy.

“I love you too, Sean,” the man murmurs, his own blue darker, and the corners crinkled with the strain of each day. “Now, go watch your siblings. They should be sleeping. Come get me if they make a fuss,” he finishes, patting Sean’s shoulder and standing. They both head down the tiny hall, and Sean goes into the first bedroom, where a crib, a twin bed, and a twin mattress are crammed in, with no space between them. The boy climbs onto the edge of the twin bed, curling up in the corner against the wall and getting back to work. He hears hinges creak and the slight bump of his parent’s door closing two doors down, the bathroom in between them. The trailer falls silent. Sean sits there for a moment, staring at Alli’s crib before gazing at his little brother lying on the twin bed mattress on the floor.

He hears a small snort from the sleeping Simon, and he jerks from his stupor. The boy draws out his pink crayon and scribbles in some more stars, head at a tilt as he works. For an hour, the sole sound in the room is the scrabble of his crayons on the paper pad as he draws and colors.  
A soft whine alerts the boy, his head flicking up as he sets his paper pad aside, creeping off of his bed, onto the mattress, and over to Simon. The toddler whines and rubs his eyes with a pudgy fist.

“Seany, tired,” Simon fusses. Sean looks around before grabbing Simon’s toy, a green dino plushy. It had been Sean’s when he was Simon’s age, but the boy had no memory of it being in his possession. The worn fabric is still soft, and he squeezes it for a moment, appreciating it.  
The five-year-old hands it to his younger brother, “Well… let’s sleep,” he decides, getting under the covers with his brother and grabbing his Elmo. Simon turns over and cuddles with Sean, hugging his dino close and resting his head against his older brother. Sean gets comfortable and lays back. He gently rubs Simon’s back, giving him back tickles like Papa sometimes does for him. 

After a bit, the toddler’s breathing evens out again, and Sean stops the tickles, his arm falling flat on the mattress. The boy stares around the room, eyes drooping and boredom hazing over his mind in a slow, thick fog. Sean counts all the wood paneling on the walls as he lays there, eyelids a heavy burden on his face. He drifts off and wakes an hour later to a high-pitched whine.

Simon has rolled over in his sleep, luckily leaving Sean free. The boy clambers to his feet, trying not to disturb Simon, and goes over to the crib. He climbs up and peers through the bars at his younger sister. She is an early teether, already starting at just a few months old, and she’s fussing. The infant is in a bit of pain as she throws her arms about, babbling and whining. Sean hands her the plushy they have for her, a little bear, but she doesn’t bother with it, still wriggling about. Her brow is wrought in pain, and her mouth is open as her whines begin to increase in volume. Sean turns, tip-toeing out of the room, so he doesn’t press too hard on Simon’s mattress. He freezes at his father’s door in the hallway, staring up at the doorknob. Papa’s sick. Sean hears a soft whine from his sister. Papa’s tired.

The boy turns, scrambling to the kitchen, opening the fridge and grabbing her teething ring. They chill it because it helps soothe her sore gums. Sprinting back as fast as he can while still being quiet, he climbs up and slips his sister her teething ring, the cold, bumpy blue band gently pressing against her forearm. She stills, head rotating and she babbles happily, but can’t seem to get it up to her mouth. She keeps dropping it since her fine motor skills aren’t the best right now. Sean reaches through the bars and gently plucks up the ring, guiding it to her mouth. She opens up and begins sucking and biting, her own petite hands moving to hold it in place now. Sean lets go after a moment, smiling at his younger sister.

“There you go, Alli,” he whispers softly, eyes alight with love. He was a good big brother, and he was helping Papa too, cause Papa was sick and needed to sleep. His sister coos softly at him, kicking her legs as she gnaws on the ring. Sean giggles and gently runs over her head, feeling her soft, wispy hair. The boy carefully watches her, and holds a “conversation”. He talks, she babbles and chews, he talks some more, she babbles and chews some more. Her bright blue eyes stare up at him, a trademark of the McLoughlin family.

He doesn’t need to wake Papa up, he can handle this. He can help Papa and make everyone happy. Including the babbling baby smiling up at him, kicking her legs and chewing on that blue teething ring. He can help.


	9. Chapter Nine

There’s a polite babble of conversation in his ears. Mark isn’t paying attention; his eyes are on the book before him. The pages are worn, and the spine crinkles with each adjustment of his hands and every page turn. He’d seen his dad reading it when he was younger, but his parents wouldn’t allow him to read Lord of the Rings until this year. It’s finally fifth grade, he’s finally ten, and finally old enough to read it. Mark uses his thumb and forefinger to flip the top right corner pages over and over again, a repetitive flitting flutter. He reaches out and presses on his clicker, touching the familiar cool, smooth surface and the memorized dividing line of the top button and the bottom piece.

Click.

“We’ve had this conversation with every one of his teachers before the school year starts up because Mark has a high-functioning form of autism. He’s incredibly sensitive to… everything, really. If things start moving too fast, things can go south quick for him, and he’ll have a panic attack,” his father explains to the teacher.

“Oh? What sort of situations should I be looking out for?” the woman asks, brows lifting. She glances over at the incumbent fifth-grader, legs curled up in his chair, arms wrapped around them, chin on his knees, book in his hands.

“Well, the louder situations. In the past, he’s had some issues with lunch and recess. Umm… when you do group activities in class. Essentially, if a lot is happening, he gets overwhelmed,” his father tries to explain, adjusting his glasses and brushing back his hair absentmindedly.

“Alright, so I need to keep an eye on him in faster-paced situations. How do I… slow him down?” she questions.

Click.

She glances over, knitting her brows for a moment before she concentrates back on his dad.

“His therapist has been working with him on it for quite some time now, and they’ve found that grounding questions can help. For example, asking if he sees anything red. Or can he find a square object? Something visual and still.”

Click.

The teacher’s lips turn into an almost imperceptible frown for a split second at the sound, and she adjusts herself in her seat, taking a measured sip of water. Mark sees the response and hope wilters in his chest. Another school year of the teacher not understanding and getting irritated with him for things he can’t control. He slowly puts the clicker in his pocket, already feeling less stable. The anchor has been reeled in and put away, leaving him adrift. His hands begin to quiver, and he sets down the book before he damages it in some way.

“Dad,” he manages out, his voice a paltry whisper as his mind whirls. Every year, new people who don’t understand, new people who judge him, new people who think he’s weird. The soft conversation stops, but Mark doesn’t notice. He blinks, drawing in a shuddering breath. He tries to breathe slowly, but they always kick at the end, a rush that leaves him shaken and ravaged, trying to recover for the next one.

“Mark, look at me, kiddo,” his father says, suddenly before him, dark eyes meeting his own. Mark tries to draw in a breath, and it hurts, tears welling up in his eyes. His dad gently holds the boy’s shaking hands, kneeling down to his level.

“Find something green,” the man orders gently, voice delicately firm. Mark shreds his eyes away from his father, shooting jerking glances throughout the classroom.

“Plant, on w-window,” he manages between gasping breaths and blurring vision from tears.

“Good, now find something red,” his father directs, voice and gaze calm. His parents are used to it by now. They’re better at hiding the sadness and fear that fills them each time they see their son like this. Mark hiccups and scans the room, hands clenching his father tightly. He murmurs an answer, and they run through a few more colors and shapes before Mark entirely stops panicking. The moment of stillness breaks when his father glances up to the teacher off to the side.

Mark closes his eyes, feeling a surge of shame and nausea roll over him. He lets out a deep breath of defeat and embarrassment, leaning forward and hugging his dad. The kid buries his face into the crook of his father’s neck, moving his arms to hug him tightly. He doesn’t want to look up and see that this woman saw him collapse and devolve into a broken person. He doesn’t want to be seen that way.

The silence hurts his ears, pounding into them violently.

“Why didn’t you use your clicker, son?” his dad asks quietly, voice a gentle murmur that sends ripples through the silence pooling in the room.

“S-she d-didn’t like it,” Mark manages to whisper into the crook of his father’s neck. He hates his life, this miserable reality. He sees spots slowly sway across the back of his pinched eyelids. At least they aren’t real. Before his dad can say something, the teacher speaks up, voice tentative.

“Is the clicker the thing he was pressing on?” she asks. He feels his dad’s chin press down a bit before rising again- a terse nod.

“Oh… I didn’t know, I thought it was one of those fidget toys every kid seems to have these days. I’m sorry, Mark,” she apologizes. The boy stills as she speaks directly to him. Neither adult has really acknowledged him since the standard introductions at the beginning of the meeting.

“And I won’t make you stop using the clicker during class- if you need it. I want to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible,” the young woman finishes. Mark tucks down his chin a bit, still hiding in his father’s arms, but he feels reassured by the words. He gives a slight nod, sniffling and extracting a hand to smear away a few tears.

“On another note, are you reading Lord of the Rings?” she asks, wanting to make the child more comfortable. Mark smiles bashfully against the crook of his dad’s neck, nodding.

“That’s really advanced for a kid your age. I’m impressed. Who’s your favorite character? I like Legolas,” she questions curiously, smiling at the boy, even if he can’t see. Mark stirs a bit more, shifting and pulling away from his dad a bit to rest his chin on the man’s shoulder, still hiding, but not as intensely. He feels his father run his hand over his back soothingly and focuses on his breathing for a moment.

“Gimli is funny,” he says, voice breathy but just loud enough for her to hear.

“I like their competition. Tolkien does an excellent job with their character development together,” she says with a soft smile. Mark nods after thinking about it for a moment.

“I think Legolas should’ve won the competition at Helm’s Deep, though. He moves so much faster than Gimli,” he giggles. They chat for a bit before the adult’s finish up business. Mark reads some more and occasionally uses his clicker, worry-free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys ever second yourself when you have a story? Like, I have every single chapter planned out. A whole entire document is devoted to summaries, and basic descriptions and such. There's 80+ chapters, and I always question if it's good enough. Like, what if my plot sucks? Is this really interesting? Is the pacing right? Is this a good enough ending?
> 
> The plague of creating art I guess. Oh well XD


	10. Chapter Ten

“Go on to the altar kiddo,” Connor directs, patting his son’s back and lightly pushing him towards the front of the church as their family steps in. Sean nods, making his way forward and climbing the steps. He slips through the side door and receives a blessing from the priest. After he puts on the robe, Sean helps out the younger kids, who are just starting to help serve in the altar. The fifth-grader helps light candles, prepare bread and wine, make sure the incense is burning at the right times, and more. Mostly, he guides the younger ones, with help from the teenager who was there too. In the middle of the service, there’s a small pause so that the priest can deliver a sermon. Jack ensures that all the younger servers are standing properly in their spots before paying attention.

“My brothers and sisters, as we read in the Gospel today…”

Sean drifts off, staring blankly. How dull- another stupid analysis of some random scripture that’s long, boring, and meaningless to him.

“Even in his time, Jesus faced those who sought to do evil, the Pharisees, the Romans, many of the Jews. We see it time and time again, with those who question our dogmas, and cardinals, archbishops, bishops, priests who begin to spout the newest lies the devil has sewn in our society. There is always dissent in the Church, and even more attacks from the outside, but we must fight on. We must read the scriptures, the psalms, read the teachings of apostles and the great fathers of the Church. We must remain true to tradition and persist in the face of evil.”

Sean blinks, rubbing his eyes and focusing again. The devil is sewing new lies in society?

“Do not let these latest attacks on the Church sway your faith, we have the teachings of the Church. These days, with the arguments over bathrooms and gender, and the disregard for God, giving sex-change hormones to children, even below the age where they can grab a drink or vote, they are allowing this. They are allowing homosexuality, they are changing the discourse to facilitate calling anyone who professes a belief against it a radical, a danger, calling them alt-right.”

Sean frowns. His brows knit in confusion. He never understood that teaching. Why was being gay bad? Ellen was gay, and she wasn’t bad. Papa didn’t like her, but Sean disagreed; she was funny, and she helps a lot of people out with her show. Sean also likes watching Hannah Hart on YouTube. She was gay. But she was nice, and funny too. He had never understood that teaching.

“Do not cower in your faith. We have the teachings of the Lord, we have God, and we know the truth. Now, this is not to say we should be cruel to homosexuals. No, it is important to treat everyone with the love you would wish to receive, as the Lord commands. However, you can love someone without accepting their behavior. Be gentle, be kind, but do not waver in your beliefs. The devil’s strength is growing in these dark times, but remember the Lord, remember to have faith, and remember to persevere and stay strong.”

After the service, Sean took off his robe, helping with cleanup, while his family made their way to the small side building for coffee and chatting. After a bit, he makes his way over, sitting in the corner eating sugar cubes as he laughs and hangs out with the teenage altar server- it was fun to talk with him afterward. Sean snorts at a joke, slumping back in his chair while reaching over and snagging a sugar cube. He crunches through the tiny packed crystals while they sit in silence for a moment, staring out over the other parishioners.

“Dude, that sermon was so dumb,” the elder decisively comments, chewing on one of the coffee stirring straws that he’d snagged for his “coffee”. Mostly sugar and cream, with just enough coffee to turn it light brown, but that was the point.

“Why?” Sean questions, sitting up and turning to look directly at his friend.

“First off, using ‘homosexuals’? What is this, the sixties?” the kid snorts. Sean has to laugh at that, nodding.

“Should’ve just said gay, like a normal person,” Sean snickers under his breath.

“But like, seriously?” The kid says, before making a silly impression, with dramatic facial expressions and an overexaggerated voice, “The devil is sewing lies! The homosexuals will turn the frogs gay! That whole thing was full over strawmen and red herrings.”

They both devolve into laughter, moving on to joke about other matters. Sean had to agree with the elder, even if he didn’t know what strawmen and red herrings were. The sermon seemed so out of touch and just full of misunderstandings.

“Why do they all think being gay is bad?” Sean suddenly pries softly, gazing up at the older boy. The teenager is quiet for a moment, staring at the fifth grader. He unquestionably had a realization that the things he said mattered to this kid, and that he was an influence, and that his statements could help, and that his statements could hurt, and that whatever he says next is of great importance to Sean. Shit.

“Well, sometimes, people are scared of change, right? Like, next year, you’re going into middle school. That can be scary. So, when they’re used to straight people, seeing gay people can be scary. And when they believe something written thousands of years ago to be the one hundred percent truth, they start to use that book to justify their fears. Like, a backward thing- thinking oh, I don’t like this, let me search for evidence to prove why, versus finding evidence first, you know?” the kid tries to explain. Sean’s brows furrow. He doesn’t reply. A brief nod and the conversation promptly shifts to something much less severe. Later, the two depart from church, going home with their separate families.

But those thoughts never depart from Sean’s mind.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chlorine and the smell of too many people stinks up the sidewalk outside the natatorium, emanating from the doors leading to the building, sulking out, saturating Mark’s lungs. He curls up in a corner near the door, between the brick wall and a “pillar” that juts out a bit from the wall for decor. Mark chooses the location because corners are more comfortable for curling up in. He draws his book closer, curling the pages between the covers and letting them fall. Such a soothing sensation on the tips of his fingers, simplistic and conventional.

Mark ignores the din of splashing and cheering and chatter and yelling and laughing, seeping through the cracks encompassing the edges of the doors. It’s much quieter out here, but it still takes some effort to prevent the racket from troubling him. Each noise is still sudden and random, still volatile and unpredictable. Tom is on the varsity swim team, now that’s he’s a junior, things are incredibly competitive. This is the year where colleges are really looking at him. Sixteen, two years away from college, and Mark is resigned to his fate of constant attendance at swim-meets, still only eleven years old.

A pair of white vans steps into view, marching into his peripheral vision with toes resolutely turned toward him. Mark hesitantly peers upward in confusion, brows rising. He doesn’t know anybody who wears white vans. He doesn’t hang out with the kids who keep up with the trends. The girl has dark brown hair, big brown eyes, a slightly impish smile quirked upon her lips.

“So, is this the reading corner?” she asks, holding up her book. It’s well worn, spine cracked, pages dog-eared, corners bent from flicking them absentmindedly as she reads.

“I guess?”

“Mind if I sit next to yah?”

Mark hesitates. Her behavior is abnormal from girls he’s met before. In sixth-grade, they all still seem to have the “cooties” aversion to anything male, or they are too shy to approach guys, or they act like one of the bros. However, he’s one of the nerdy, “weird” kids. Girls aren’t exactly something he deals with on a regular basis, as foreign a species as the family cat that only shows up from the fissures and clefts of the house to be fed once a day.

“I guess?” he mumbles again, deciding it’s best to be polite and kind. After all, this girl doesn’t seem particularly annoying. Her grin appears to brighten, practically blinding as she plops down. She leans back against the clay without care, cracking open the book. There is a familiarity in the motion. She has done this many times, and that reassures Mark.

“My name is Amy, what are you reading?” she asks, attempting to ignite conversation between them. Mark lifts his book, providing a silent answer as her eyes absorb the cover design.

“Ender’s Game... What’s it about?”

Mark bites his lip. She clearly wants to hold a conversation, but Mark is not in the mood. He feels exhausted and worn down, sodden with the scent of chlorine and the damp feeling that purveys the air in and about the natatorium. He turns the book to the back and shows her the blurb in answer.

“Oh, huh. So it’s a space book, right...?”

She wants to know about the book, and with the way she inflects her voice and glances at Mark, she wants to know his name as well. Lots of questions, lots of matches falling upon damp, sodden kindling.

“Mark, and kind of? It’s more about… fighting, and strategy,” Mark answers, pulling the book back and opening it back to his current page.

“What’s the best thing about it so far?” she queries, the impish smile back. A strand of hair dangles in front of her face as she tilts her head down and turns it toward him. Mark’s brows furrow. What a strange thing to ask. Not the best part, not his favorite scene. The best thing about the book.

“The symbolism. There’s one chapter called Phoenix, which is the ‘army’”- Mark says, doing air quotes -” he’s in. As the chapter goes on, it discusses how Ender feels like he’s stuck, no longer progressing, caught in an endless cycle,” he explains, his passion rising from the ashes of the dull swim-meet. His eyes sparkle, like the crystals in brown sugar, warm and sharp.

“Like a phoenix,” Amy finishes softly, closing the loop of explanation, which in itself comes back to the beginning. Mark nods, a pleasant smile on his face. He tucks his lips inward, cheeks chubby and round as he softens the smile, not wanting to blind Amy with an unwarranted grin. They were discussing symbolism, not cracking jokes.

“And then throughout all of it, there’s this giant that he has to deal with in this game he plays, and it”- Mark stops himself, a huff departing from his lips. He doesn’t want to spoil anything.

“I guess I’ll just have to read it then,” Amy muses, the impish smile back. It was a mischievous thing, somehow comforting and sweet, but still a playful gesture. Mark laughs softly and nods.

“Yeah, you should,” he grins, smile shy and soft. He meets Amy’s eyes before looking off to the side, tentative and as flitty as a bird.

“Maybe I can borrow it from you when you’re done,” Amy hums thoughtfully, “Tonight I’m just reading one of my favorites though. My parents are at some meeting with the principal about donations and deals with their coffee shop. I got bored and wandered,” she divulges.

Mark nods in understanding. This makes more sense now, as he has never seen her at a swim meet before, but she is wearing a bracelet with their middle school letters stamped on it. The two continue to talk, leaping from topic to topic, laughing softly, gasping over shared interests. Mark cracks a joke, and she laughs. Mark follows as well, amused and amicable in her company.

“Yo, Mark! Let’s roll!” Tom calls from across the ways, where his family now stands. Mark glances up, only now noticing the increasing stream of people leaving the natatorium, the chatter swelling, eddying about until it pools in the small groups that break off.

“Sorry, I’ve gotta go,” Mark apologizes, climbing to his feet. Amy gasps and digs in her pocket until she pulls out her phone to hand it to Mark.

“Give me your number real quick,” she nearly demands. Mark quirks a brow at the assertive nature of the statement but does as she requests. He hands it back, gives her a light wave, and heads off to his family.

“Absolute Chad levels of energy. A total player!” Tom rags, grinning with pride for his brother, and the golden piece draped over his neck to hang loosely on his chest. First place, as usual. Mark huffs as his dad ruffles his hair, attempting to ward off the attack and blushing.

“Was not,” he mumbles as his only answer. A defensive glint sharpens in his eyes, not wanting to talk about the subject. He feels caught in the act, knife in hand, though the two hadn’t gone within a mile’s radius of flirting.

“It’s cute,” his mother hums. A knowing smile dons her lips as she pats Mark’s shoulder, and the family walks to the car. 

“Insolence,” he playfully glowers, and the family laughs, climbing into the car and heading home. Mark huffs and shoots a glare at his family. A soft click sounds out, simply to ensure he’s still doing fine, and he shakes his head, a slight smile gracing his lips.


	12. Chapter Twelve

“Alli, no, we can’t have candy,” Sean softly chides, delicately drawing Alli from the rows of chocolates and sweets that sit in the cashier lanes, all waiting for the whining children, the sudden craving, the impulse buy.

“Why?” she challenges, frowning at Sean, but she obeys. For as much hell as his siblings give him, they listen to him more than many siblings would. This is because he is often formally tasked (by his parents) with doing some parental duty with them. When they were busy, he took over. His parents both work as much as humanly possible. They want to save up as much money as possible. The family is moving soon, and every penny counts in the city. Papa has his apprenticeship there, and there's a steady, good-paying job in the future for him afterward. It’s a wonderful opportunity, a ray of sunshine for the family, but to get there, they have to pass through the storm.

“Cause candy is bad for you,” Sean answers listlessly whilst his eyes rove across the other aisles. Checkout invariably takes what feels like ions. He finally lands back on Papa, standing by the register. Coupons and food stamps are strewn about the counter by the old machine. It’s been a couple of minutes already. Ringing everything up on the absolutely ancient register takes a while. 

Nevertheless, it is the only store within walking distance for the family. Malcolm clings to Papa, arms around his father’s neck, and the toddler stares at the people behind him with the signature innocence of development and exploration. The only time the family can go to the supermarket is when Jack gets out of school. He is in sixth grade now, so it denotes much later store visits, but Papa needs the kid’s help carrying all the groceries.

“You’re six seventy-eight short,” the cashier croaks. She’s like a gecko, with thin, almost inward curling lips, a beak of a nose, bulging eyes, and a waddle. Sean imagines her eating the worms they feed the class gecko in science. A forked tongue, flicking out and lapping up the food. However, the lady has no long tongue to snap up worms- just claws that dart forward and pick up coupons between long, chipping burgundy nails.

“Oh…” Papa says quietly, as the couple people behind them in line curse softly under their breath. Sean ducks his head, ears burning. He pulls Simon and Alli closer.

“I guess… I guess, take off the doll,” Papa finally decides, defeat in the dark rings that sag below his eyes. Usually so bright, they are a worn stone today, sunk at the bottom of a pool, heavy and alone. The little doll had been Alli’s birthday present. She’d been seeing commercials for the toy for months, and that’s all she wants. The little girl watches the doll as it’s set aside. Everything else they bought is food, cleaning supplies, and hygiene items. It’s all things the family needs. They don’t need the doll. They have a few toys already.

The cashier lady jabs at each key again, loud clicks and beeps sounding out. She snatches at the different coupons and stamps, pulling them to her and inputting the data. Her eyes bulge, and she glares down in irritance, huffing. It has to be done over, the entire thing has to be done over. The register is old.

“I’m sorry,” Papa apologizes, disheartened. She huffs, waving her claw dismissively. The line shifts, rocks side to side, takes a glance at the time, and sighs softly.

“Wouldn’t have these problems if you just paid for better condoms in the first place,” one man grumbles under his breath, monitoring his watch with no desire to be here. Sean’s face turns bright red, and he pulls Simon and Alli to him, stepping right up beside Papa. His eyes go wide in shock, but he is far too embarrassed to turn around. Nobody else heard the man.

Papa and Mama had just given him “The Talk” a few months ago. That whole situation had been mortifying enough, but a complete stranger mentioning it! In public! This is how people perceive his family. Unorganized, crass, a disaster that was never planned. Accidents. Simon scowls, wriggling his hand in Jack’s grasp.

“Let go, too tight,” he fusses as he attempts to tear away.

“Sorry, Simon,” Jack apologizes, voice but a whisper. His neck and ears are bright red- he can feel that creeping heat along his skin. He loosens his grip slightly but keeps a tight enough hold.

“No doll?” Alli asks softly, looking up at Jack and Papa with confusion and sadness. Jack shakes his head. His heart clenches, gut so empty feeling.

“No doll, All,” he says. His voice rasps, and he swallows, clearing his throat. “I know it was for your birthday, but we’ll still make it fun,” he adds, ruffling her hair and giving her a smile even though the gift isn’t what she wanted.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

A couple of weeks later, Mark sits alone at a table in the corner of the lunchroom, reading and munching on his meal. Someone slaps a book down on the table with a loud thud. He looks up, brows furrowed, and heart racing. After he presses his clicker to calm down, he relaxes more. It’s Amy.

“Dude, you never returned my texts,” she says as she plops down in the seat beside him, a polka dot lunch box taking up the space on the table before her. Mark winces at the reminder.

“Yikes. Sorry. Bad at texting.”

“It’s totally chill, but you know, I thought we were vibing! You’re pretty dope, to be honest. You’re quiet, but I can tell you’re super smart,” she said, smiling at him. Mark stares at her with confusion. She unpacks her lunchbox.

“Sorry for not texting back,” he apologizes again. Amy giggles and pats his shoulder in reassurance. Mark is flabbergasted. The level of energy is a total contrast to his own.

“It’s totally fine. I was able to find you in the lunchroom, so it’s chill. Do you sit alone?” she asks, opening a shallow container with baby carrots in it.

“Yeah, my other friends have a different lunch,” Mark divulges, eventually returning to his meal. It’s taco bowl day, and he loves the crunch of the big chip bowl. It fills the sound in his head and muffles the cafeteria noise.

“Welp, can I be your friend?” she asks, raising a brow, a close-lipped, playful smile accompanying the motion.

“Uhh… sure?”

“Awesome! I’m reading Ender’s Game now!” she proclaims brightly, patting the glossy cover sitting on the table alongside her lunchbox. Mark smiles with enthusiasm.

“Really? What do you think?”

“There’s a sense of urgency underlying the whole book, that the chats between the officers definitely pulls into sharper focus,” she notes.

“Yeah, and it definitely puts his character growth into perspective. We get to see the people who are pulling strings, and see how they’re impacted by him,” Mark adds with a nod of affirmation. The two chatter away, discussing what they’ve encountered in the book. Mark cuts himself off occasionally, intercepting spoilers before they pass his lips.

After a couple of minutes, the pair falls quiet, eating and reading. Separate parts of the book and different meals, but Mark feels a rare sense of togetherness. Most of his other friends are dudes he games with. They aren’t much into reading. They say it’s boring. Though Mark likes it. There are no senses in his mind, except the ones he wants. His mental movies can move as slowly as he needs, can have as many background characters as he wishes, or as few as he desires- to stay calm. All too soon, the bell rings. The chatter level rises as kids stand, gathering their things, and filing out of the cafeteria.

“See you tomorrow?” Amy asks, smiling at him as she stands, putting away her containers and closing her lunchbox. Mark nods, giving a hum of agreement as he collects his tray to throw away.

Time passes much faster when people are talking. Mark has always moved slowly through the world, feeling people pass by, feeling the rush of sound, the assault of colors. It is strange to catch glimpses of their perspective. In the weeks that follow, lunch with Amy turns into doing homework after school with Amy and goofing around in Band before school with Amy. Time moves so fast with her. She smiles at him in the halls. She walks with him to some of his classes, and he walks with her to some of hers.

With her, things blur around him. Together, they move at lightspeed. Their momentum allows them to move calmly at the fast speed, but everything around them turns to blotchy blurs. Sounds muffle, scents die, sharp lines soften. He is no longer assaulted by the surrounding world. His mind is calm. When she leaves, it stays that way for a while. He’s relaxed, no need for the clicker, everything moves slowly around him. He is in control.

However, it only takes one wrong move for things to come hurtling back. A crash, head-on collision at high speeds. As the shuttle he rides slams to a halt, Mark’s body keeps moving- shaking and flying forward. Outside of the shuttle, the sounds of the highway are jarring, laying on the concrete. Everything moves so fast around him after crashes. Nobody stops for him, nobody pulls them into their vehicle to keep him going. The whir of life roars by him, on the way to a dentist appointment, or to the next class.

Weeks pass by, filled by these unsettling transitions from peaceful lightspeed, to angry stillness: to Amy, to loneliness.

“You should come to my parent’s coffee shop. We can go there after school. They’re pretty close by. About a fifteen-minute walk,” Amy suggests at one lunch.

“Sure, sounds good. I’ll text my mom,” Mark hums, tapping out a question to make sure she knows where he’ll be after school.

“Oh! There’s a friend I want you to meet too! His name is Ethan! He’s super nice! He’s good at photography and likes gaming too. However, he still gets the whole… silence thing. I know some of your friends don’t,” Amy pitches, looking at Mark hopefully. Mark bites his upper lips, brows knitting together.

“I don’t know…” he murmurs while his fingers fidget with the pages of his book.

“Please? He’s really sweet, and you two have a really similar sense of humor. He’s kinda crazy on the surface, but he’s really focused and driven when it comes to his photography,” Amy begs.

“Umm…” Mark starts, before smirking lightly, “If my coffee is on the house, I agree,” he finishes, a playful, devious glint in his eyes. Amy rolls her own, gently slapping him upside the head.

“Boy, you manipulative little-!” she scowls with playful darkness, unable to keep the smile from growing on her lips.

“Is that a yes?” Mark asks, the picture of innocence. She huffs, crossing her arms.

Mark gives her a cheeky grin.

“Yes, of course,” she grumbles before she breaks down into giggles along with the boy.

After school, they walk to the shop, chatting along the way. Amy has texted Ethan, and the boy will meet them there. He needs to talk to a couple of teachers first. They enter the shop, the smell of coffee brew saturating the building. At one end, there’s a lovely little nook, with a couch and a couple of chairs. One wall is a huge bookshelf, filled to the brim. A small sign says “You damage, you pay, have fun!” in calligraphy. Mark snorts with amusement, raising a brow.

“Nice sign.”

“Thanks! Made it myself!” Amy giggles before the pair make their way to the counter.

“Hey, Amy, who’s your friend?” the woman asks. She has the same big eyes and shrewd smile as her daughter.

“Hey, Mom, this is Mark!” Amy announces, gesturing to him like an art piece. Mark blushes lightly and gives the woman a wave.

“Hi Mrs. Nelson,” Mark greets, awkward as usual.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mark,” she greets, finishing drying off the mug and setting it aside.

“Ethan’s coming in soon too,” Amy announces as well.

“That’ll be great. You two will be having the usual?” Mrs. Nelson asks with a gentle smile. Amy nods.

“Yeah, and what do you want, Mark?” She asks, turning and looking at the boy with a happy grin.

“Something sugary?” Mark says with a shrug. “I like vanilla?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mrs. Nelson laughs softly.

“Thanks, Mom!” Amy finishes brightly, turning and dragging Mark off over to a small table in the corner that bathes in lovely natural light from the front windows.

“This place has a great vibe,” Mark hums, plopping down in a chair. He dumps his backpack to the side, leaning back and nodding with satisfaction.

“Total hipster vibes,” she laughs.

“I have the glasses for it,” Mark snickers. They chat, tossing banter back and forth. Soon, their coffee is ready. Amy goes and gets it, carrying the drinks over.

“There. Your coffee on the house,” she says with a smirk. As if she wasn’t going to just give him free coffee anyways. Mark chuckles and takes a sip. His eyes widen, and he grins.

“Whatever this is, it’s great,” he laughs, taking another drink. The door opens with a soft ring. Amy brightens up, grinning and waving at the kid.

“Hey, Ethan!” she greets sweetly. Ethan smiles and waves back, making his way over as he peers curiously at Mark.

“Ethan, Mark. Mark, Ethan,” Amy introduces. Mark smiles and gives Ethan a small wave as the boy sits down. Tousled brown hair swept to one side, a nervous, awkward smile, big ears, gentle eyes. He seems sweet enough.

“So, you’re the infamous Mark,” Ethan says, taking a sip of his coffee and leaning against one of the arms rests of his chair.

“In the flesh,” Mark hums.

“Amy’s told me a lot about you. It’s awesome to finally meet you,” he divulges with a soft smile and laugh. Mark chuckles and shrugs.

“All good things?” he asks shrewdly, glancing at Amy playfully. She scoffs and rolls her eyes.

“What? Of course not! I gave him all the dirty laundry!” she says sarcastically, and the group giggles. Conversation comes easily. Ethan wants to take pictures of Mark. He says he would be very photogenic. They both chat about the new game on the market, Overbooked, a spinoff of Overcooked, and Mark invites them over for the weekend (after getting Mom’s permission). The group whines about irritating teachers and complements the exceptional ones. All too soon, the light is turning soft and orange outside, and the trio is having to say goodbyes. Mark gives them his address. Three o’clock is good. Yes, they can stay for dinner. Any diet restrictions? None? Good. Ethan texts Mark, so he has his number. Amy makes a group chat. 

All the way home, Mark moves at lightspeed.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Sean decides the house is an absolute mess. Boxes are stacked all over the place, filled to the brim with clothes, pots, pans, toiletries, anything one can think of. They'd only moved in a few years ago to accommodate the addition of Malcolm to the family. Now, Papa had finished trade school. He was done with the school part, but now he needed an apprenticeship. So, the family was moving again. This time, to the city. Where the wheel of life would only turn faster as the family grew up, Papa did his apprenticeship, and Sean would go to high school. Though, that was a couple of years down the road. He helps scoop up the last errant items, packing them up and taping off boxes with his parents, and then they load up the U-haul. Hours later, they're ready to depart. They had risen early in the morning to pack up the last bit, so by mid-morning, they were on their way. Hours drag, miserable in the packed vehicle, five kids, four being under the age of ten. Sean doodles, writes, and sketches to pass the time, having nothing else to do.

The apartment complex is nasty. The paint is peeling, the metal stair railings are rusting, the lights are tainted yellow. Jack stares up at the place with open disgust. It's gross. It's embarrassing.

"Sean, come help with the boxes," Papa calls as Mama corrals the little ones indoors and up to the apartment, getting them situated and excited about unpacking. "See, look here! You get to put all your dolls here and look, your truck can go here!"

All the usual methods of thrilling the children.

"Papa… is this really where we're living?" Jack tentatively asks, carrying a bulky box as he walks behind his father up the stairs to their flat.

"Yes, it is. I know it's cheap, and this building is not the nicest, but it's all we can afford Sean. An apprenticeship doesn't pay a lot, and your mother is still working mostly minimum wage jobs. Now that there's five of you, things are even tighter," Connor answers as they hike up.

"We're putting the couch in a kind of private spot, right?" Sean asks. Connor nods. He had been informed that he could either share a room with Simon and Malcolm, or he could have the couch. It was already a relatively large flat, with three bedrooms to accommodate the large family. One for Allison and Susan, one for the boys, and one for the parents. Jack had chosen the couch because the living room had been kind of in a corner, and he felt it was secluded enough to utilize as a bedroom.

"Of course, kiddo. I know it sucks, but we'll do our best to make it comfortable for us all," Connor answers. Great. How reassuring.

The conversation wanes, and the family unpacks. For furniture, they have the bare minimum. Beds, the couch-bed, dinner table, chairs. They plan to obtain dressers and such, presumably Ikea, since they had to sell the ones from the old house (too big). As they finish getting the basics completed, Simon groans, plopping onto Sean's couch.

"This place sucks," he hisses vehemently as Sean slowly sits down beside him.

"We're really close to school and a bunch of cool shops, though," Sean replies. He learned long ago from his parents that, no matter his personal opinion, he ought to put the best foot forward in front of his siblings.

"Sure. Shops we can't buy anything from," Simon counters. Sean shrugs.

"This is the music capital of America," he reminds.

"Doesn't make up for the fact that we are down and out on everything except for people and noise already," Simon replies. Right on cue, Susan starts crying in the room over. Sean presses his lips together, struggling to find another good thing about this crowded place.

"The schooling here is way better."

"I'm sure that thrills you," Simon mutters sarcastically.

"Don't be a Debby-downer," Jack replies tersely, almost snappishly, as he stands and pulls his box of clothes and bedding over to beside the couch. "Now, hop up, I'm going to make my bed," he says to Simon. His sibling stands, surprised by Jack's harshness. Mama calls Simon to help with dinner, and Jack is left alone with his thoughts. 

Fuck, he hates this place. However, he is actually excited about school. He doesn't need to be Sean at school, he can be anyone he aspires to be. He doesn't have to be uptight, always happy, responsible for everything. He can be Jack, and for that, the next day is thrilling.

Richard Allen Middle School is terrific, from the beginning to the end of the day. In each class, roll-call takes place, and he corrects the teacher in each of them.

"I go by Jack."

"How'd you get that one?" they all ask, in some variation or another.

"Sean is the Irish version of John, and a nickname for John is Jack," he always answers, in precisely the same manner each time. It gets a nod, smile, perhaps a chuckle. They write it to the side and continue on.

Jack. Simple. Care-free. Sean always holds such burden for him at home. It's wonderful to not be called that here.

Jack arrives on "college day"- where he gets to meet a slew of college students, who all mention one thing. Scholarships. What a fabulous idea. He knew he would be working his ass off to get one. That was his plan. Get in-state tuition at the University of Texas, and get a scholarship to hopefully get a full-ride. He necessitates a full-ride. His family is in enough debt as it is.

The lunch was better here too. They also had cookies at Woodcreek Middle School, and chocolate milk, and mangos. There were so many people. Jack can get lost in the crowd, and he loves it. He learns from a kid in one of his classes that his grade alone has six-hundred students. Amidst all those individuals, Jack sticks to one like glue.

Felix Kjellberg. A Swedish kid who had spent half of his life in each place. His dad owns two businesses and split his time into segments that were now based on Felix. Pre-school and before had been America. Primary school was Sweden. Middle School is America, and Highschool will be Sweden. Blond hair, icy eyes, and a sneaky grin. They're both nerds who focus way too much on school. They sit at the corner table at lunch, and Felix helps Jack begin to review what they've learned in math so far.

"Yeah, so we talked about all the different shapes and their areas. We did volume… we did perimeter. Now we're kind of doing algebra with it. Like 'how long is this side if…"

Felix explains, pushing an assortment of papers towards Jack to show what he means. Jack follows along for the most part, but his attention is definitely split. Felix has a piece of hair that's dangling over his forehead. The rest is thoroughly combed, but this one-piece has strayed from the herd. All Jack can think about is those few strands of hair and how badly he wants to reach over, brush it back, comb his hands through Felix's hair, and fix it. Felix would look pretty with tousled hair, Jack decides. He blinks. Hell no, that's gay. He isn't a fag.

"So… yeah, that's basically it. Honestly, it's been a pretty easy year. Jack?" Felix says, looking up. Jack shakes his head and blinks again.

"Sorry, drifted off. It's all a lot to take in, y' know?"

"Yeah, I totally understand. I have a hard enough time just switching from America to Sweden between grade levels. I can't imagine switching in the middle of the year like this," Felix agrees with a grin.

"I'm gonna have to catch up on some of this," Jack mutters, looking at the simple algebra.

"I'll help you catch up with your classes and stuff. It'd be great to have a study partner," Felix says quietly, nervous. He isn't sure if Jack will accept the proposition.

"Yeah, that'd be awesome," Jack replies with a grin, meeting Felix's gaze. His eyes drift to his forehead and the one offending piece of hair. His hand twitches. He grabs a piece of paper and looks away.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

It has not been a good first month for eighth grade. The entire time had been shadowed by a loss in Amy’s family, in Mark’s “family”. Amy’s mother had died only days after school started. She’d been fighting cancer for years, but in the few months before her death, things turned for the worst. The chemotherapy was useless, none of the drugs worked, it couldn’t be physically removed. The cancer spread, invading her body, destroying it. 

Mark and Ethan visited Lola a couple of times at the hospital. They’d witnessed how the light in her eyes dulled, how her skin sank and became sallow. Her body had become frail and weak. She was hooked up to so many machines, so many beeps and strange sounds, wires everywhere.

Mark hated the hospital. It was cold, austere. The lights shined too bright, and the smell of powerful cleaners burned his throat in the hallways. He hadn’t been able to stay long the first time. His breathing had come so fast, and the idea of pain and suffering all around him had been overwhelming. Too much. The boy had come back though, armed with headphones playing relaxing sounds and a good friend. He, Ethan, and Lola had listened to soft music and talked about life. The coffee shop, the incumbent school year, the annoying nurse who served lunch. Whatever came up, whenever it came up. Mark couldn’t help but feel that their conversations were distractions that always danced around the truth. However, Lola smiled while they talked, and the two young boys were loath to hinder a dying woman’s smile.

Amy was much busier now. She helped her dad at Lola’s almost full-time. At one point, Ethan offered to help, but Amy refused. The family couldn’t afford more workers because of all the hospital bills. Mark never bothered providing his aid in such a way, knowing his anxiety made him useless in busy shops, servicing unruly customers. Still, the boy found ways to help that suited him. He cooked a lot more- cooked a lot of meals that Amy and her dad could freeze and eat whenever they needed it. His mom helped in the beginning, seeing her son’s shaking hands as he tried to keep his mind focused over the loud sizzling of meat and the beeping of the oven. Mark did get better, though, working on concentrating his mind. Thomas was good at remembering timers and such, so he helped Mark remember when to take things out of the oven or off the heat. Mark was oftentimes too frazzled, mind running wild, to really think about things like that.

Ethan helped out by making paintings of Lola, surrounded by beautiful fields, or sitting in her coffee shop. He also pulled up old photos of her and edited them to look nice. The family used his art at the funeral. Amy cried into Mark’s shoulder, one arm around him, and the other hand clinging to Ethan’s. Mark could only imagine the grief she felt. His parents had divorced, and it had been hard enough to lose his father merely being at home, even though he saw him quite often. The boy can’t understand her grief, but he tries, combining the feeling of the divorce with the loss he feels from Lola’s death. Mark doubts it comes even close, but he feels pain, deep-seated grief, and he lets the tears run down his face at the funeral. He sat stoic and still to be strong for Amy, but grieving with his friend for someone he considered to be a second mother, tears wetting his cheeks.

Mark and Ethan sit in the library before school one day, about a month and a half after Lola’s funeral. Amy doesn’t show up until right as school starts- helping with the shop. She used to arrive early so the three could hang out, but not anymore. Mark and Ethan sorely miss her, feeling the absence of presence as an amputee feels the absence of their limb. They know right where she would jump in during the conversation, feel her energy, feel the beaming radiance of her smile. Yet, every time they turn to her or let the conversation pause so she can interject, there is nothing. Only silence and empty space greet them. A sore reminder that life is unfair, and things change.

“Hey, Orson Scott Card is coming to town to give a talk,” Mark states softly, looking at the website before glancing at Ethan.

“That sounds fun,” Ethan mumbles, not thinking much about it.

“We should go.”

“Why?” Ethan asks, raising a brow and looking at Mark. “It’d be really mean to leave Amy out like that.”

“Yeah, so we bring her with us. It’s on a Sunday morning. They don’t work Sunday mornings, so she can come. We can get her signed copies of the Ender’s Game series, dude.”

Ethan’s eyes widen in realization as he finally picks up what Mark is putting down. It’d be an outing to help cheer Amy up.

“Yeah, and we’ll pay for it all,” he said with a nod, leaning over to look at admission prices. The boys talk more, planning the outing, and getting everything set up. Mark uses his debit card and buys the tickets, Ethan sends him some money through GooglePay to account for his half. The boy’s head over to Lola’s on Friday afternoon- printed tickets in hand. They march inside, proud grins on their faces as they announce the news. Amy smiles excitedly, hugging them tightly in thanks. No excited squeals or thrilled jumps as they may have once gotten, but they understand that she’s tired and sad. They don’t expect anything theatrical from her. She gets out her wallet to pay them back, but the two boys don’t let her, say it’s their treat, and crack jokes about what type of men they would be if they didn’t pay for their dates. They all giggle and laugh, and Mark and Ethan help wipe down a few tables while Amy serves a customer. There is hope in the air, smiles on their lips, and excitement in their hearts for the first time in a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm doing more research into different mental disorders, and the more in-depth research I do, the more I think Mark doesn't have high-functioning autism, but rather, Aspergers. Apparently, they're very similar. However, the defining differences in characterization are late speech development and very poor social interaction from people with HFA. I have to do more research into the specifics of Aspergers, but that's what I'm leaning towards. None of this is actually THAT important, as there's no official point where Mark's diagnosis is blankly stated, but this is just my side journey of research XD


	16. Chapter Sixteen

At the beginning of eighth grade, the McLoughlin family finally has some money to get Sean some new clothes. It’s been ages since Sean bought clothes, and a lot of the items were getting too small. His father takes him to the local thrift stores and places like GoodWill. The clothing articles on the list are new jeans and shoes. They’d bought him oversized shirts years ago, and while they were a bit thread-bare, Jack took good care of them and finally started to fit him. Even though they were poor, his family made a conscious effort to not look broke. His parents were Irish immigrants, and he’d grown up speaking Gaelic at home and English in school. Assimilation was important to his parents, and looking poor didn’t do anyone any favors.

The store is empty, aside from him, Papa, and the cashier. Racks upon racks of clothes are set out- a plethora of the unwanted. It’s not the most organized place, with broad sections like “Women’s shirts” and “Men’s pants”. Nobody cares. Sean heads straight to the pants section, rifling through them for his size. He grabs a pair of jeans in his size and looks over them thoroughly. Good stitching, no holes, no stresses. A catch.

“No, put those back. Those are women’s jeans,” his dad says with a shake of his head.

“They’re in the men’s section,” Jack replies, confused.

“Yeah, but look at the cut. Men don’t wear tight jeans,” Connor answers, gesturing vaguely to the jeans.

“They fit me.”

“So will other jeans.”

“These are a good pair.”

“Not if they make you look like a cross-dresser.”

“They’re just tight jeans. I think it’s pretty obvious I’m a guy,” Jack says back, brows furrowed. If he wants these jeans, why can’t he wear them? They’re in the men’s section, and even the bloody label says men’s jeans.

“No. Put them back. Now,” Connor commands sharply, glaring at Jack. The boy scowls, mentally muttering all the outrageous comebacks he can think of as he puts the jeans back on the rack. Defeated, Sean looks through it again before getting a few pairs of regular jeans. Really, he needs about five, but he only buys three. Papa doesn’t think much of it, not exactly a man of fashion, and it’s not like he’s the one that does the laundry around the house. The kids do that because Papa goes to work.

Jack makes a mental promise to come back for the jeans.

“See, look, I can get five pairs of the jeans if I don’t eat the chips from my lunches. I can sell them for cheaper than the school, and make a pure profit,” Jack reasons over the yells of the crowd and football team. He and Felix are at the football game for extra credit in their social studies class. Jack spent a good majority of the game pitching ideas for money-making. Chip selling is actually a pretty good scheme, so Felix nods, tucking a knee up onto the bleacher and looking over Jack’s math.

“The school sells for a dollar twenty-five, and since I’m on lunch tickets, I don’t pay for them. I sell for a dollar. The jeans are nine dollars. If I do this for forty-five days, I get five pairs of jeans. Probably a few more to account for tax,” Jack said, taking Felix through the math.

“You could do it with your cookies too, and double your profit. That way it’ll probably only take 25 days, cause of tax,” he advises. Felix plans to buy a lot of Jack’s food from him. He wants to help his friend out with cash, but Jack always refuses him. Jack scowls, thinking it over.

“As much as I love cookies… I really want those jeans,” he mutters begrudgingly. He writes in down on the piece of paper, bending over and scribbling notes to himself.

“How about I give you the cash for the jeans, then you pay me back as you make the chip money,” Felix suggests. “That way, you can go get them before someone else buys them,” he adds to persuade his friend further. Jack finds himself nodding in agreement.

“Yeah, cause they aren’t girl jeans! Other men wear tight clothes! Those guys are bloody wearing leggings and running around throwing a pigskin!” Jack exclaims angrily. Felix sighs and nods wearily, having heard this impassioned contention several times by now. He leans over and rests his head on Jack’s shoulder.

“They are kinda gay, though…” he notes. Sean grimaces.

“But I like how they make me look,” Jack argues softly. The weight of Felix’s head on his shoulder quadruples at the reminder that Felix is suggesting he might be a fag.

“It’s okay, Jack,” Felix reassures, cuddling closer. Jack feels Felix’s body heat as his friend presses against his side.

“I can’t be gay,” Sean says with a shake of his head, rolling his shoulders and shifting away so that Felix is forced to sit up. His friend frowns, brows knit in sadness.

“Sean can’t be gay. Jack can,” he suggests, shifting closer again and resting his hands over Sean’s. Sean stares at Felix for a long moment before breaking eye contact. He gazes out over the football field, watching the boys run, yell, and tackle. He can see their thigh muscles in the leggings, watches the muscles flex as the boys churn their feet in the grass, ramming against each other. Sean rubs his eyes, pulling his hands from Felix’s. His friend draws his hands back, crossing his arms and shifting a bit to give Sean his space. Felix looks down, his knees tuck in. Rejection hurts.

“I… I want to try,” Jack whispers, peeping out from between his fingers. Felix perks up, beaming as he leans forward and pecks Jack on the cheek.

They both flush deep red.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

“It’ll be alright, Mark, don’t worry. If things get too overwhelming, we’ll go to a quieter area. We’re here because you need to try,” Amy speaks gently to her friend as they walk past the ticket gate. The swell of sound from cheerleaders, players, and the band grows ever more prominent as they near the bleachers. It’s the part of the band that wants to play at the games. Neither Mark nor Amy signed up for football season, both considering it a waste of time. Today is an exception to the rule because this is the rival school, and the last game of the season, so the social studies teachers offered extra credit for coming. Hence why the nerds flocked out in herds to show “support.”

“But, it’s already a lot,” Mark mutters, hands fidgeting with his clicker as he rolls it between palms over and over again. He picks out the chatter of a group of girls, a yell from a guy. Ethan comes up with their tickets that they’d bought and pockets them so they can take their picture later.

“Just remember the techniques you’ve worked on. Maybe focusing on one player during the game will help. Or just following the ball. We’ll sit away from the band, don’t worry,” his friend reassures, wrapping an arm around Mark’s shoulders. Mark flinches at the touch but doesn’t draw away.

“A lot,” he whispers, pressing at his clicker. His friends share a glance, and Amy digs in Mark’s bag. She pulls out the earbuds and hands them to Mark, plugging them up to his phone. She unlocks it and goes to his playlist, pressing shuffle and repeat. The songs Mark has are all rhythmic and methodical. Predictable. Mark learned a long time ago that it’s the unpredictability of things that throws him off, so these types of songs help. The boy puts in the earbuds and relaxes somewhat as he pockets his phone. He whispers a quiet thank you, and his friends smile gently.

Mark knows he’s a burden. Here his friends are, fretting over him, worrying about keeping him happy, when they could be jumping up and down and doing the school chants with the people clustered around the band. They could be having fun. Instead, they’re climbing up the bleachers to the farthest corner from the band, at the very top, as far away as possible from any noise. 

“So apparently, whoever wins this game goes to the playoffs,” Ethan states as they sit down and settle in. Mark sits between his friends, hands clasping his clicker in his lap, knees pressed together. The lights are so bright, there are so many colors. He can hear cheers and yells through his earbuds.

“Are we the white, or are they the white?” Mark asks softly, pressing back against the chain-link fencing behind them that prevents people from falling off the bleachers. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s grounding. He can feel the wind against his back.

“They’re white and red. We’re black and red,” Amy answers, doing the same as Mark.

“Football is stupid,” the boy mutters, pressing his clicker. His friends chuckle and nod. Mark shakes his head as if to get rid of a fly, hearing a girl let out a shrill scream as her boyfriend picks her up from behind in surprise.

“How to get a concussion 101,” Ethan hums, staring at the players as they run through warmups. The other two murmur their quiet assent.

“Let’s take the selfie now,” Amy suggests, not knowing how long Mark would be able to hold out. The two boys nod, and Amy holds up her phone. They all stand and face the other way, so the field is in the background. The trio smiles, Amy holds up a peace sign and does her signature smirk, and “click.”

“Here are y’all’s tickets,” Ethan says, passing the slips of paper to Amy. She carefully puts one in her cross-body purse and then puts Mark’s in his bag for him. Mark sighs quietly, curling a leg up and resting his chin on his knee.

“This is stupid.”

“Yup,” Amy agrees, ruffling his hair. “But that attitude sure ain’t gonna help,” she adds. The game starts a couple of minutes later, and the trio chats about school. They talk about their plans for Freshman year. What classes are they taking? What athletic are you doing? What fine art? Ethan is doing Art 1, and off-campus athletics with his gymnastics. Amy is doing tennis and band. Mark is doing band and off-campus athletics because his dad wants him to start weight-lifting. He thinks it’ll be good for Mark, and his dad is willing to go through the paperwork for Mark to do it off-campus.

“I want popcorn,” Mark mumbles as half-time comes and goes. The concession stand line is shortening, people wandering back to their seats to watch the game again. Right now, their school is winning.

“I’ll go with. Amy can hold down the fort,” Ethan proposes, already rising. Mark nods, grabbing his bag. He amps up his music for walking past the cheerleaders and band kids, taking deep, slow breaths, and trying to block the chaos out. It doesn’t work. Things are too loud. The image of a cheerleader in black and red doing a flip. The golden shine of a tuba glares. The pom-poms rattle. Mark stretches out and catches Ethan’s hand, clutching it tightly and closing his eyes. Ethan discerns the need immediately and leads Mark along the walkway as fast as he dares. Mark steps behind him, used to this. His pulse races and he feels Ethan’s picking up through their joined hands. Or is it just his? He can’t tell. He can’t hear the sound of his clicker over the cacophony of school spirit.

Ethan pulls them back under the bleachers as Mark’s breathing races. He sits Mark on the ground. The concrete is uncomfortable against his butt, and it scrapes at his palm a bit. He gasps for air as Ethan picks up both of Mark’s hands, pulling them to rest on his chest.

“Breathe in,” Ethan orders, taking in a deep inhale himself. Mark feels the rise and fall of Ethan’s chest. The slow, calm heartbeat. He breathes in, the breath catching in his throat too many times, and he gags a bit. Tears sting at the corner of his eyes.

“Look at me,” Ethan tries. Mark whimpers, salty droplets trickling from his tear ducts. They cling to his lashes as he opens his eyelids. Ethan is close, taking up his entire vision. It’s dark here- quiet, calm. No one else is here.

“Tap three times,” Ethan says with gentle firmness.

Mark taps on Ethan’s chest three weak times.

One.

Two.

Three.

“Breathe in. One. Two. Three,” Ethan says, following the rhythm Mark has set as he breathes in for that long. Mark does it as well. It’s shaky, and he tastes salt on his tongue from his tears. The boy stares into the hazel eyes taking up his vision. So complicated, always changing colors. Sometimes they looked green, oftentimes brown. Right now, they were warm and dark.

“Out. One. Two. Three,” his friend conducts. Mark follows. The pair runs through a few more exercises until Mark is entirely calm again. As Ethan lets out a relieved breath, Mark feels obnoxious. Shameful. Bothersome.

“Sorry,” Mark whispers, ducking his head. He always feels humiliated after having a panic attack.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You did better than we expected anyways. We actually expected just sitting there would be too much. You did wonderfully. Don’t ever be sorry for this. You are learning to control it. You are doing the best you can. Don’t be sorry,” Ethan assures softly, patting Mark’s hands on his chest. He stands from his kneeling position and offers his hand. The boy takes it and wipes his teary eyes with his sleeve.

“I think popcorn and chocolate sound good,” Ethan decides, taking Mark’s hand and walking with him to the concession stand over by the home team’s bleachers. Mark nods feebly, staying close to Ethan and trudging along. He ruined the night, didn’t he? He lets Ethan get the food, giving his friend some cash in return.

“Can… can we just sit on this side for now?” Mark asks. This side’s band isn’t playing right now, and they’re losing, so they’re quieter. Ethan is pensive for a moment, thinking. He nods.

“Yeah, let’s get some seats, then I’ll call Amy,” he decides. Mark follows Ethan mindlessly, falling into the rhythm that pulses into his ears. He focuses on the back of Ethan’s head, letting everything else blur out. Blobs of color drift by, but nothing pierces his concentration this time.

“Do you guys mind if we sit here?” Ethan asks as he pulls to a halt. Mark refocuses, seeing two guys cuddling together, one with his arms around the other, who has their legs tucked up along the bleacher. No one else is around them. Two sets of blue eyes peer at them in confusion.

“Umm… you don’t go to Richard Allen,” the blond says. He’s got his arms around a brunet.

“No, we go to the other school, but it was pretty loud over there, and honestly, we’re just here for extra credit,” Ethan replies amicably. The two boys look at each other, holding a silent conversation before looking back.

“Sure, if you want to,” the brunet mutters with a shrug, pulling away from the blond and sitting up straight again. His feet swing off the bleacher seats and onto the walkway with a metallic thud.

“You guys can keep cuddling or whatever, we don’t care,” Ethan reassures. Mark realizes they’re still holding hands, but neither of them stops.

“Not a fan of PDA,” the brunet replies, looking down. The blond gazes at him with furrowed brows and looks like he wants to reach out, but he ends up just putting his hands in his lap and biting his lip. Ethan sits down on the bleacher row in front of them, gently pulling Mark with him.

“Hold the popcorn while I call Amy,” Ethan tells his friend, handing Mark the food before digging out his phone. The two behind them are quiet.

“Umm… are you guys… gay too?” the brunet suddenly asks, voice with a hint of an accent. Ethan looks at Mark, raising a brow before walking away to talk to Amy on the phone. Mark glowers after him, exasperated that he’s now the one who has to answer this.

“He’s not gay, I am. We aren’t a thing,” he mumbles, lowering the volume on his music. Mark turns slightly, looking at the pair as he hugs the popcorn close. The blond is looking at him like he’s insane. The brunet is chewing at the cuticles of his thumb with a stressed-out expression.

“But you were holding hands?” the blond says. Mark shrugs.

“Yeah. We do that sometimes. We aren’t a thing,” the boy says again. The blond looks over at the brunet and raises his brows. He gestures at Mark and juts his head forward slightly, making some sort of silent argument. The brunet scowls and blushes heavily.

“But… you’re gay?” the brunet asks, turning back to Mark.

“Uhh… last time I checked,” Mark says.

“You can check?” the brunet asks, shocked- the blond snorts. Mark blushes.

“Uhh… I mean… like… guys are pretty?” he mumbles with a shrug. The blond laughs while the brunet looks confused.

“What’s your name?” the blond asks.

“Mark. You?”

“Felix, and this is Jack. Can I have your Snap? You seem chill,” Felix says, digging out his phone and going to the app. Mark shrugs, typing in his username for the boy.

“I don’t do streaks.”

“Yeah, that shits dumb,” Felix nods in agreement, wrapping his arm around Jack’s shoulders as he leans back. He takes a selfie of them and sends it to Mark. The boy feels his phone buzz in his pocket. “There, now you’ve got mine too.”

“Thanks?” Mark says, confused by the whole vibe. It seems like he and Ethan walked up at a weird time.

“No problem,” Felix hums. Jack is quiet, watching the game and Mark as he rests his head on Felix’s shoulder.

“She’ll be here soon,” Ethan says as he returns. “Are we gay?” he asks Mark with amusement, a smirk on his lips. Mark laughs, and the two other guys join in. Yeah, this side was much better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Double update because I've been busy for the past few days and feel guilty lol.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

This is the third and final thrift shop in the area. It’s dimly lit, with aging light bulbs that cast a warm yellow glow over the room. Dust particles dance and swirl, illuminated in the sunlight that pierces through the windows into the darkened interior. The boys already have three pairs of jeans and are searching for the final two. They don’t have time to go anywhere after this, because Jack needs to go take care of his younger siblings in about thirty minutes.

“Oh, try these, they look cool,” Felix says, pulling out a pair of skinny jeans that have been stressed and ripped strategically along the whole length. Jack frowns and shakes his head, looking at all the rips.

“No. I want these to last a really long time,” he says, rummaging through the racks of used clothes. He locates several pairs of jeans he likes, frowning a bit at their current condition. They’re dusty and a bit stiff from sitting so long on the rack in the cramped thrift shop. However, Jack knows it only takes a methodical rinse with cold water and the right soap for these to be looking good as new. He pats them down a bit and carefully clutches them as if they might fall apart by merely handling them roughly. These jeans mean a lot to him.

“I’m gonna go try these on,” he announces, turning and waltzing off to the dressing room at the back of the store. Felix watches him go, and once the old, rickety door squeaks and shuts with a click, he springs into action. He grabs a few of the pairs of jeans that look cool, even if they won’t last as long. Some of them are more expensive, but Felix doesn’t care. They’re for Jack. Beautiful, kind, sweet, nerdy Jack. He buys them and stows them in his boyfriend’s bag. The blond takes the receipt and uses a sharpie, scribbling out all the prices so that Jack won’t be able to see them when he gets home. He adds the slip of paper to the bag, not wanting his boyfriend to think they accidentally stole anything.

A couple of minutes later, Jack marches out, the selected jeans hugged close to his chest. He gives Felix a tentative smile and nod before carefully laying them on the checkout counter. The boy chews his bottom lip, carefully watching the cash register’s small screen. The price rings up as $19.44, and Jack grimaces. They had already spent a lot of money on the other jeans in the other two places. Every ding, every click of the clerk typing something on the register makes Jack recoil and grimace. He shouldn’t be spending this money, his family could be using it.

“Felix, you really don’t have to. I can... I can wait- really. I don’t expect you to just drop so much cash at once,” Jack says to his boyfriend, gently holding his upper arm and leaning against him slightly. He looks at Felix with big, blue, pleading eyes. His boyfriend rolls his own and turns, handing the cashier a debit card.

“You’re paying me back anyways. This is like getting a loan,” Felix counters with a shrug, taking his card back after a moment.

“It’s a lot,” Jack whispers and bites his lip, looking down. The floor is old, dirty tiling, and Jack looks at Felix’s shoes, almost brand new and clean. Felix shouldn’t be doing all this for someone like Jack.

“Honestly, it’s not that much. The total for all three places is $44.98, which is less than what you expected for all five pairs,” Felix reassures his boyfriend gently. Jack nervously takes the jeans and puts them in his bag, along with the receipt. After zipping the bag up, the two boys leave, walking out into the chilly winter air. The first cold front came through this morning, and Jack’s winter jacket had gotten a big tear along the hem connecting the sleeve to the body of the piece. Malcolm had been the culprit.

“I… I don’t want to bother you about it. This really sets you back for a while,” Jack demurs, hugging himself in an attempt to ward off the cold as they walk down the street. Felix sighs softly, gently pulling Jack to the side of the concrete path, out of people’s way. He gently pushes Jack back against the brick wall of a group of townhouses and leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“It’s not a bother,” Felix whispers, the cloud of his breath condensing mingles with Jack’s as they stand so close together. “You are so sweet and amazing. This doesn’t set me back in the slightest, you know my dad’s company is doing well right now,” he adds, pressing a kiss to the tip of Jack’s cold red nose. The brunet flushes and looks down, not used to such public displays of affection. There’s people passing by on the street right now for goodness sake!

Felix pulls back and takes off his backpack. He sets it down with a loud thud and pulls off his hoodie. He offers it to his boyfriend with a smile, wearing a sweater underneath the hoodie, so Felix wasn’t cold. The brunet takes it and pulls it on, frowning.

“You’re too nice. I feel like I’m using you,” Jack mutters, staring at the ground in shame. Felix laughs dismissively.

“Yes Daddy, take me, use me,” he teases in a high, whiny voice with a snicker.

“Oi! You’re the one who said you watched that shit on Pornhub!” Jack exclaims in a loud whisper, shoving Felix’s upper arm.

“Exactly,” Felix deadpans, face lacking any hint of sarcasm or amusement. Jack sticks his tongue out, grimacing and shuddering.

“Shit’s weird, Fe,” he says as he pulls his backpack on again. Felix does the same, laughing as he breaks character.

“In all seriousness, you aren’t using me. I like giving my boyfriend things,” he says, taking Jack’s hand as the brunet blushes heavily. The blond smirks, pressing a kiss to Jack’s cheek before pulling him back along the sidewalk and off towards Jack’s apartment complex.


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Mark sits in his science class, listening as the teacher drones on and on. They’re in the unit about outer space, and Mark is over it. He loves outer space, and he learned this crap years ago. It’s elementary for him, so he doesn’t pay much attention. However, when the teacher clicks away from the slideshow and goes to the internet, Mark refocuses his attention.

“So, in timing with the space unit, Kelley ISD organizes a huge field trip for every eighth-grader. We will be traveling to NASA headquarters in Houston!” she announces, smiling happily. Mark perks up, eyes wide with surprise. NASA? He’s never been before, and they get to go on a field trip! The teacher chats about the bus situation, and how that’s where most of the money will go because the charter buses are expensive. Mark raises his hand, too excited to second guess himself.

“We’ll get to tour the whole place, right?” he asks. The teacher smiles and nods back.

“Yes Mark, and I’ll get to that in a bit, let me finish talking about transportation details,” she says, happy the boy spoke up in class. Mark nods, leaning forward in his seat and clinging to every word. A huge grin stretches from cheek to cheek, and he rocks his head side to side a bit. Normally, Mark tries to control these repetitive urges. Mr. Josh works on it with him, but Mark is just so excited, he doesn’t bother trying to hide it. His table partner gently taps his shoulder.

“Hey, Mark, you’re rocking your head again,” the kid says. They aren’t friends, just desk partners, but Mark had told the boy to speak up if Mark ever did anything weird. A lot of people just let it slide, but that leaves Mark completely unaware he’s doing something abnormal.

Mark’s brows furrow, and he nods, pressing his clicker and forcing himself still. He listens quietly for the rest of the class, focusing a bit more on his mannerisms. The classroom is relatively quiet for once, avidly paying attention as the teacher discusses details about the trip. She passes out permission slips, talks about starting to form groups with your friends in the class, up to five a group.

After school that day, Mark talks with Ethan and Amy about it. He doesn’t know what to do about the group situation. His only two friends are in a different science class. They say he should speak with the teacher about it since this isn’t a normal situation. Mark nods, going early the next day to chat with her.

“So… My friends are in Mr. Lowry’s class, and I need to be with people I trust during the trip. It’s a foreign situation to me, and I don’t want to have a panic attack or something,” Mark explains, staring down at his clicker in his hands. She’s quiet for a moment, thinking it over.

“I’ll see what I can do, Mark. I’ll talk with Mr. Lowry. However, the issue here is that when we go out, I’m legally responsible for you. That makes having you mix in with another class confusing and harder to keep track of people,” she explains gently. Mark presses his clicker, taking a shuddering breath.

“Alright… Umm… thank you,” he whispers, blinking a few times and shaking his head once. She smiles and leans over to a cat-shaped cookie jar on her desk. It opens with a clink of glass, and she picks out a jolly rancher.

“Thanks for coming and talking to me. I know this stuff is hard for you. You’ve really come out of your shell, and I’m proud of you. Especially raising your hand in class to ask a question yesterday. That was great,” she says, handing him the small candy. Mark meets her gaze for once, blushing a bit at the praise as he takes the candy.

“Thank you for, for…” Mark mumbles, looking back down when eye contact becomes too much. She smiles and nods.

“I could use some help prepping for our lab today? Five points of extra credit?” she offers with a smile. Mark perks up and nods rapidly, a small smile on his lips. His parents sign the permission slip after the finer details are worked out, and a few weeks pass as teachers get slips and cash for the trip.

He will be with both Mr. Lowry and his teacher Ms. Yancey, who will be going through the museum to lightly monitor kids. Amy and Ethan can be with them too. It seems like a good enough solution, even though the three are bummed that they can’t just wander around without supervision. Not that the teachers want to supervise too much, it’s just the only workaround they could come up with.

The bus ride over is both fun and stressful. The trio sits near the front, close the teachers, but the back is quite loud. Mark uses his noise-canceling headphones whenever it gets too much. The majority of the ride is spent playing Uno. It’s fun, silly, and Amy is unnaturally good at the game. They stop at Buc-ee’s, a famous rest-stop/gas station in the South, and Mark gets some caramel popcorn. He and Amy sit together, Ethan is just across the aisle.

NASA is everything he could have hoped for, and more. They try astronaut food, wander through the old space shuttle, and get a tour of the labs, where scientists are testing new equipment and building on more modern shuttles. Mark is enamored. Right then and there, he knows exactly what he wants to do for a living. No, not an astronaut, that’s too stressful. He wants to be here- in the labs, designing and engineering the machines that launch humanity out into the unknown. He babbles on during their walk through the center, adding background info and asking the tour guide questions. Ethan and Amy are shocked by the display, used to a reticent, quiet Mark. Not a Mark that asks a random stranger complex, multi-sentenced questions. They don’t call him out, they just enjoy the opportunity to hear him talk, grinning between themselves.

After lunch, they relax to digest for a bit, camping in the film room to watch the twenty-minute video describing the long road to getting a man on the moon. A more accurate description would be the long expedition through the ever-changing, ever twisting labyrinth. Mark is relaxed until the first failure is shown. The rocket explodes, people are screaming in the video, another explosion as it glares brightly, overpowering the bright sunlight. Mark tenses in his seat, eyes wide, breaths coming to a halt. There are a few squeaks from people around him, a shriek from some woman in the back. It had been so sudden.

There are several more clips, deathly silence over an observing crowd at the launch site, pierced by screaming children. Mark closes his eyes. Too much, it was too much. He shakes his head, trying to get the sounds out, but they just rattle around even loud. He stands, pressing his hands over his ears. Amy and Ethan immediately rise up, reaching for their friend as he stumbles past people in their row, beginning to hyperventilate. He trips and falls onto a lower platform of the platforms/stairs that lead to the back of the small viewing room. Mark scrambles to his feet, running out, but the boy stumbles again, vision blurry. Hands grab him as he lies on the ground. There’s boisterous cheering from people in the film after it shows a successful launch, but the chatter of people mulling about the museum is louder.

“Too much, too much,” he gasps, airway tight. He wheezes, gagging as air chokes through the tightening airway. There are murmurs. Someone is hugging him tightly, but it doesn’t work. He pulls away, mind running wild. Imagine being one of those astronauts, strapped in tight as you fly into the air, moments before death.

“Mark! Look at me!” Ethan orders sharply, but the words are muffled. Amy tries several methods as well, but nothing they’ve done before is working. Mark crawls away, pressing against a wall and letting out a strangled scream, clawing at his temples as he covers his ears. His mind keeps playing it over and over again. There’s a louder, more adult voice. People are grabbing at him. Mark screams, shaking them off and thrashing violently. Too much, too much. He gags and gasps for air, seeing spots against his eyelids. It had been too surprising, too sudden. Combined with the terror of knowing people died there. Real people, not just actors playing a role in a movie. Mark feels light-headed, muffled talking, and worried calls surrounding him as he drowns in darkness. He falls still, limp against the wall.


	20. Chapter Twenty

Jack sits in science class, clicking his pen idly as he watches the slideshow with an apathetic expression. Great, another field trip he’s not allowed to go on. Yet another permission slip Mama and Papa will sigh and shake their heads at. The worst part is that this one looks particularly fun. All Kelley ISD eighth graders are being offered the chance to take a field trip from Austin down to NASA in Houston. The loose itinerary is a fun bus ride, a day of goofing around and learning about space, then a fun trip back. A day free of school and the usual structure. He begins to glower at the slideshow, angry that he will be unable to go. Felix nudges his side with an elbow as he sees the expression.

“What?” Jack grumbles, glancing at his boyfriend.

“You should come. You can pick up the chip and cookie hustle again,” Felix suggests with a hopeful smile. Jack sulks and shrugs, shifting back to pay attention.

“Because this is a school-district field trip, students with monetary issues can still come. They need to speak with the teacher further, and they will work it out, but the fees can be reduced to almost nothing for those students. That’s if they qualify. If you believe you qualify, just talk to me in the next few days,” the teacher says brightly. At that, Jack perks up a bit, a hopeful, tentative smile blossoming on his lips.

“Yooo, getting a free trip!” Felix softly cheers, holding out his hand to high-five Jack. The boy rolls his eyes, indolently slapping his hand and paying much closer attention after that announcement. Jack can actually go on this one. Surely, for just one day, he can leave. The younger siblings can handle one day.

Jack speaks with the teacher after class, describing his situation, and presenting the meal tickets he uses for breakfasts and lunches. If he’s on meal tickets, he definitely qualifies for the financial aid here. His teacher emails the administrators organizing the trip, gives Jack his special permission slip, and says, “have a good day.”

That’s that. Now, if Jack’s parents will just say yes, he will finally get to go on a cool field trip.

“No. Someone has to take care of the kids while you’re gone. We can’t just take a day off for that,” Connor says when the boy asks. Sean deflates, chewing at the cuticle of his thumb nervously.

“It’s just one day, Papa,” he pleads, gazing up at his father and pulling the best puppy eyes he can manage without being blatantly obvious.

“I’ll need to talk with your mother, Sean,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. Sean nods in understanding and gives his dad a small smile and a hug.

“Thanks, Papa,” he says. Connor hugs back, writing a note to his wife and sticking it to the permission slip before setting it on the bedside table for her to read when they got home. They will discuss the situation further when they are both at home for a bit, but with the way their shifts work, that won’t be until early tomorrow morning.

“Yah, now go do your homework. I saw you turned something in late in your maths class?” Connor asks with a solemn tone and a raised brow.

“Oh, yeah, she didn’t see my paper. I talked to her, and she’s fixing it soon,” Sean reassures with a nod as he marches off to the living room to start his homework. He calls Felix from the landline, and they work on the math homework together.

Tomorrow, they’re going to a football game to hang out. Felix is leaving at the end of the year for Sweden, where he’ll go to high school. Both of them agree it’s stupid to try and maintain a long-distance relationship for four years when Jack doesn’t even have a phone. They plan to keep in touch as friends, but nothing more. With this in mind, the couple wants to make the most of their last few months together.

The next few weeks are spent in gathering excitement as they journey onward to the day of the field trip. Jack puts on the school shirt they are required to wear and slips out of the apartment wearing his skinny jeans. Normally, he changes at school, but he was leaving considerably earlier than usual since the ride to Houston was so long. The buses are leaving at six in the morning, so Jack can sneak out without any issues. He’d eaten a bit less yesterday, using his meal tickets meant for today to get more food than he typically does. The boy saved all the non-perishable items from the meals yesterday so that he could eat them today. So, gone was the chicken, rice, and bread for three separate meals. What remains is a stash of chips, cookies, and apples and oranges for. He figures it will balance out between the massive meal one day, and the sparse spread of the other.

The bus ride is fun. Jack and Felix spend the majority of the trip cuddling and watching YouTube on Felix’s phone. The blond buys a plethora of food at Buc-ee’s, and they share the food Jack has and Felix’s food. Felix gives Jack one of his brisket sandwiches, refusing the boy’s attempts to reject it- practically forcing him to eat it. Felix consumes very little of Jack’s food, just enough that it’s not apparent to Jack.

NASA is awesome. The two boys are in love. Being the nerds they are, they geek out over practically everything there. They wander around, holding hands and chatting. The couple is technically supposed to be with the other two kids in their group. However, they had all formed a pact to split up into couples at NASA. The girl and guy were dating too and wanted to be by themselves as well. Hence, the freedom to roam around an entire day with just his boyfriend, sharing kisses, cuddles, and hugs whenever they get the chance. Lunch is a lack-luster affair, in which Jack munches on his chips, and Felix manages to feed him some of his food without Jack protesting. Afterward, they head to the theater room to watch a twenty-minute video about the road to landing on the moon.

The film is fascinating, and they very much enjoy it. The couple pulls up the armrest between them and cuddles together, murmuring jokes and comments to each other as quietly as possible. Jack flinches when it shows the first rocket explosion, wincing softly. Felix is stone-still, taking in the carnage in silence. They’re both shocked, but they continue to watch as the film shows the scientists fighting onward. Soon after, Jack’s eyes are drawn to a figure a few rows in front of them that stands stumbles toward the exit. Jack’s brows furrow, that kid looks familiar. However, he isn’t able to look further as Felix pulls him into an ardent kiss, taking advantage of the dark theater room.

Jack sighs softly against his boyfriend’s lips, melting into the kiss and closing his eyes. He doubts it was a big deal anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I'm bad at tagging, let me know if there are any other tags I should add. Thank you!


	21. Chapter Twenty One

Cheers and cries of triumph ring in the natatorium, clattering out, taking up space. Tom pulls himself to rest on the ledge of the pool, looking beside him. He lets out a triumphant whoop, splashing the water and raising his arm in victory. First place. In the state finals. He will be going to nationals. Only a few steps away from the Olympics. He climbs out, pulling off his goggles and cap, rubbing his eyes, pushing back his floppy, wet hair. His coach wraps a towel around his shoulders, patting his back, he says some loud, encouraging words, but everything is blurry. Tom only hears the sound of his deep, fast breaths. He turns his head, peering up at the stands.

First place.

Mom and Dad would be proud of him. They would see him, see that he’s doing good. Maybe they’ll go out and celebrate for once. Mark is on a field trip. For once, they can go party and celebrate with his team.

Nationals.

He searches for their faces in the crowd, that short black bob his mother sports, the stark white hair and mustache of his father.

Nothing.

“Coach Harrison? Have… have you seen my mom and dad?” Tom asks.

“No, they might just be outside watching on the tv’s out there. It’s packed in here,” the coach replies, giving Tom a hearty clap on the shoulder before going over to another kid on the team.

Tom steps through the crowd of swimmers. The other kids on his team, even some from other teams, congratulate him, patting his shoulders, back, neck. A few close friends give him a cheeky slap with their towels. Tom gently brushes them all away, walking down the long length of the stands, eyes roving over each and every face. His breathing hasn’t calmed down. There’s a roaring in his ears, like a wave rushing toward shore, gathering power, gathering momentum, building up. He steps out of the natatorium, gently pushing his way through the crowds of people gathered around the TV’s live-streaming the event from out here.

Nobody.

He goes back into the natatorium. It was crowded out there. Maybe he missed them. Perhaps they were just blocked by someone with a poster in the stands. He goes to his bag, digging through it. 

He stares at his lock screen for a long moment. His family sits in a booth at a popular restaurant. Tom’s hair is damp, a golden medal hangs around his neck. Mark is pale and trying to hide his face. His parents are sitting on opposite sides, but his dad has his arm around Tom’s shoulders, and his mom grins. Tom was in sixth grade when the photo was taken. He can’t remember any other time they bothered doing something like that as a family.

A few taps, then the sound of unanswered rings that pierce his eardrum harshly, quite loud to try and be heard over the raucous natatorium. Tom tries again, biting his lip, brows furrowing. Mom isn’t picking up. She always has her phone on her. She’s on it more than her children, always answering emails, discussing business. He attempts another call. Third time's the charm?

“Hi, you’ve reached the voice-mail of…” comes the bright, business-like, formal sounding answer. Tom hangs up, squeezing his phone tight, bending it at the sides as if he could snap it in half. He groans, scowling and punching at the options, navigating through it to call his dad.

“Hello, this is the voice-mail of…” is the deep, calm, rolling voice of his father’s recorded message. Straight to voice-mail. Dad’s phone isn’t even on. Or he’s in a place with no service. Tom checks his own data- full bars. So Dad isn’t here then. He throws his phone angrily in his bag, tossing in his crocs and change of clothes with vicious anger.

“They never care anymore!” he mutters to himself, shoving his backpack against the wall with a sullen thump and a fragile jingle of zippers and key-chains. He storms off, cash in hand to go buy himself some food since his races for the day are over.

Hours later, he hears his phone buzz on the bus ride back.

“Marks in hospital"  
"Bad panic attack, hes fine"  
"Sorry couldnt make it"  
"Nathaniel give you ride home"

Tom stares at the string of texts.

They didn’t even call him.

He turns his phone off, stuffing it deep down in his bag again before he turns and asks Nathaniel for a lift home.

First place.

Nationals.

Nobody.


	22. Chapter Twenty Two

"That's Mark," is all Jack can manage through his shock, hands clenched tight around Felix's phone. Pictures of an ambulance flashing, EMTs talking, Mark lying on the ground, Mark loaded onto a gurney all snap through visual existence with every tap of his thumb. Snapchat is riddled with the photos. It's the talk of everyone in the school district. Someone fucking passed out on the field trip.

"Yeah, he was by the theater room," Felix murmurs softly, sitting beside his boyfriend and looking at the photos over Jack's shoulder. He has already seen them, but he looks again so he can experience it with Jack. Jack pales at the information.

"Felix, I- I think I saw him when he was starting to panic. During our time, like, right before you kissed me," he whispers, eyes wide and trembling slightly.

"Oh," Felix murmurs, suddenly feeling a bit guilty that he'd pulled Jack into a kiss at that precise moment.

"I… I could have done something! He needed help!" Jack says, voice a broken whisper. He had seen Mark, seen him beginning to collapse. Yet, he had done nothing. Felix sits up straight and turns to look at Jack with a firm gaze.

"No, you could not have done something. Mark has his friends, Ethan and Amy. They were probably with him. Besides, a lot of adults know how to stop panic attacks. A lot of teachers know, and there were for sure some teachers there too. That type of knowledge is becoming more common every day. If his friends and full-grown adults couldn't stop him from passing out like that, there's no way you would've been able to."

"But I-"

"Be realistic, Jackieboyman," Felix whispers softly to cut Jack off, a loving, gently concerned smile on his face. His eyes are so warm, so tender. They understand Jack and accept and love him for his kind heart, even if it can sometimes be flawed. 

Jack stills, biting his lip as he stares back into those piercing blue eyes. They're brighter than his, sharper, icier. Felix knows him so well. That's all Jack thinks for a moment. Here he is, trying to fix, trying to save another person. 

Felix works with him on it- tries to stop him from spreading himself too thin. Jack is already pushed thin, though, trying to help his family out. His boyfriend understands, but conversations have been held. Jack cannot save everyone. Sean cannot save everyone. As much as he wants to be the superhero, he is only human. Imperfect. Weak.

"I… I guess you're right. It just… it feels as if I should have done something."

"He's alright. I saw it on Ethan's Snapchat. He's alright. It was just a scary moment. He's safe," Felix reassures, pulling Jack into a hug. The brunet rests his chin on Felix's shoulder, staring at the shelf of books behind their little couch in their school library.

"But I could have-"

"Jack, you cannot save everyone," Felix says sternly, pulling back to rest his hands firmly on Jack's shoulders. Felix almost glares at his boyfriend, gaze strong and hard, lips pressed into a thin line.

"But-"

"Babe, you can't be worrying about everyone else, for fuck's sake. Sean is already spread so thin, let Jack have a moment. Let Jack feel sorry for someone, but then move on. Jack doesn't have to be weighed down," Felix murmurs. Jack sighs, staring into those bright, icy blue eyes for a moment before ducking his gaze.

"Sorry, you know I get carried away sometimes. I know we've talked about this. I can't help everyone. I can't be that stupid nickname we made up. Because it's stupid. I'm not a superhero," Jack reassures. Felix cracks a small smile, pecking his boyfriend on the lips.

"Jackieboyman needs to work on his retirement plan," the blond hums before pulling away as the pair laughs. Felix takes his phone back before Jack can look at the photos again, and they start studying for the math test today.

Throughout the school day, however, Mark is the talk of the town. The final bell rings, and he stands, marching out hurriedly. He just wants to get home, away from all the chatter, the gossip. He doesn't like it. People shouldn't be talking about Mark like that. They shouldn't be whispering his personal issues so openly. It's wrong.

"How were your days?" he asks his younger siblings, trying to pull himself out of his head for their sake. Simon and Alli walk behind him a bit, and he's holding hands with Malcolm and carrying Susan in his arms. Simon and Alli are both in Elementary school now, Simon is in fifth grade, Alli's in third. Malcolm and Susan are both at pre-school, though Susan's is more like babysitting. Only three-years-old, she's not exactly doing much rigorous schooling.

"Good. I started reading Harry Potter today with Mrs. Jackson," Malcolm announces, skipping along the sidewalk. The five-year-old is about to go to first grade, and his teacher has encouraged him to read more.

"Oh? How is it?"

"Dudley is annoying," Malcolm says.

"All the Dursley's are annoying," Alli pipes up. Jack smiles as his siblings start up a full conversation about Harry Potter. He jumps in occasionally to stop Simon and Alli from spoiling parts of it for Malcolm, but it's a peaceful conversation. They get home, and Jack digs through the fridge, getting them all some food. He carefully feeds Susan, reading over his science homework as he sits at the table. The eighth-grader is tired, but Jack appreciates Felix's earlier concern. Jack can't imagine how awful he would feel if he still thought he could have done something about Mark. A few hours later, the door creaks, and Malcolm runs towards it.

"Papa! Papa! I started reading Harry Potter today!" he declares with pride. Jack snorts with amusement from his couch, where he's working on some math homework. His siblings all chat with Papa, happy to talk about their days, and the teenager just focuses on his work. Papa goes to the kitchen, and Jack follows about ten minutes later, taking a break. He yawns as he fills up a water cup, standing there tiredly.

"What the hell are you wearing?" Connor murmurs, voice low with quiet anger and shock. Jack freezes, head lifting, and eyes widening. Shit, fuck, ass. He'd forgotten to take off his skinny jeans.

"The jeans we bought."

"Bull. I didn't buy you women's jeans," Papa says coldly, glaring at Jack through his bushy brows. "Don't lie to me, Sean."

"Sorry, Papa," Sean whispers, ducking his head as his cheeks flush in shame.

"You aren't allowed to wear clothes like that. I'm not raising a queer," Connor grunts.

Sean's brows knit together, and he focuses on a single point on the floor. His vision feels blurry at the edges. His breaths are tight, but he can feel his chest heaving. His gut feels heavy, stones settled in his stomach.

"I see you in clothes like that again, we have some big problems, you hear me, Sean?" Papa says sternly, voice almost as a yell as he stands to his full height.

"Yes, Papa. Sorry," Sean whispers, fingers clenching around his water cup.

"Set yourself straight, Sean. The world ain't good for being different," Papa murmurs a bit softer before he marches from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth of July, folks. To celebrate, here's an immigrant father trying to properly conform his family into stereotypical, conservative American culture!


	23. Chapter Twenty Three

The hospital keeps Mark through the night, so the family leaves around ten that morning after going through paperwork, billing, and a clearance test. The hospital suggests psychiatrists so Mark can get anti-anxiety medication. However, his parents say they'll just talk to Mark's therapist. They have always been against Mark taking medication. The two worry that it will damage his brain development. They never say "even more," but Mark sees the pained glimmer in their eyes, like the glint of a knife buried deep in someone's side.

The ride back was dull. Three hours of silence, with adults too nervous to start up conversation after the incident, and a kid too apathetic to care about silence. Trees, pastures, houses whir by, and all too soon, they're back in Austin. Mark climbs out of the car, backpack slung over his shoulder. He mopes up to the front door and steps inside, his parents still getting out of the vehicle. The boy frowns, making his way up the stairs. He freezes at the top, staring over at the entrance to Tom's room.

Boxes litter the floor, some already built up, others still flat pieces of cardboard. A few boxes are full, a lamp, a bedspread, stacks of books, computer equipment.

"Tom?" Mark calls softly, rolling his clicker over in his hands as he steps into the doorway of the room. He sees his brother bent over a box, taping it shut.

"Go away, Mark," Tom grunts, not bothering to turn around as he moves to shove more things in a box. Mark stares around the room. It's almost entirely empty, barren furniture and drawers yanked open, clothing ripped from its usual habitat.

"What are you doing?" Mark asks, utterly perplexed.

"I'll explain later. Go away. Take a shower. Hospitals are gross," Tom replies, still not looking at his brother.

"Promise?" Mark whispers, staring at his brothers back. Tom freezes, staring down at a box for a long moment.

"Yeah. Promise," he replies after a short period of silence. Mark bites his lip, turns, and walks out. He goes to his room and carefully puts away his backpack of stuff he'd brought on the trip. He answers the few texts from Amy and Ethan, then goes to take a shower. Mark sits down on the floor of the tub, letting the water pound onto him. It streams down his nose, dribbling around his ears, wiping over his lips. Some water clings to his lashes, and he closes his eyes, reveling in the steady, constant existence.

"What is this?" comes a sharp yell in Korean from his mother. It's on the other side of the shower- Tom's room. Mark flinches, eyes snapping open.

There's a calm murmur from his brother. His mother goes into a tirade of Korean, too fast for Mark to understand between the shower and wall muffling everything. A sharp yell cuts her off in the middle of the rant, and Mark jolts up in shock. Holy shit, Tom just talked back. Immediately, a louder, more volatile stream of Korean, shrill, and cutting raises up in response. Mark turns off the shower, hands shaking a bit. He climbs out and towels off, trying to ignore the yelling from the other side of the wall. It is hard.

"Oh yeah? Where are you going? You don't have the money! Your college plan isn't for dorms or meals!" Mom snaps in Korean. Tom replies in English.

"A friend is letting me stay. I'm gonna free-load until I get steady commissions. Then I can pay him back and start paying my part of the rent and stuff," Tom says. Mark freezes. Tom is moving out?

"What friend?"

"You don't know them."

"Why not?!"

"Because you don't bother with me, ever. You only know Nathaniel because he drives me home when you can't," Tom replies dryly. He is going to the University of Texas, and he commutes since they live in the city. However, it appears that the situation will be changing.

There's no cutting reply from his mother. There's a soft whisper, too quiet for Mark to pick up.

"I qualified for nationals with my time last night. My time was better than some of the guys on the Olympic team," Tom announces. Mark brightens up. He tries to come to a lot of Tom's stuff, even when Mom and Dad can't make it. Mark knows it is good practice to go somewhere so hectic, and he likes watching Tom swim. Tom was so good. He was so strong. So athletic. Tom had a lot of friends, and so many people loved him. Tom was everything Mark wished he could be.

"Oh, good job. Sorry, Mark was at the hospital with-"

"Yeah, you texted me last night," Tom cuts off dryly.

"Well, I'm really proud of-"

"No, you aren't. You don't care about it. I have Nathaniel get me to all the crazy practice hours. You don't invest in it at all. You didn't even call me last night. I'm sick of it. I feel like a ghost in this family. I know it sounds childish, but Mark gets all the attention. You and Dad don't talk to me ever. I've kept a record of it actually. About nine out of ten times, you guys talk to me, it's just telling me something I have to do, like the dishes, or mowing."

"Tom, you-"

"I'm sick of it. I'm moving out. I'm legally an adult, you can't really stop me. I'm done with this shit. Leave me alone to pack," Tom says. There's a thud of a door closing, then a click as the lock turns. Mark stares at the wall.

This is his fault. If he wouldn't get these attacks. If he was normal, Tom would be happy. He would be staying. There's rapid Korean from his mother at the door of Tom's room as Mark slips out of the bathroom. She stops and gives him a weak smile, trying to be strong for her son. Mark turns without returning it and trudges to his room. This is all his fault, just like his parents' divorce. If he'd been a better kid, they would still be together. 

Mark collapses into his bed after slipping on some basketball shorts, curling up and pulling a pillow over his face. It's dark. It's quiet. It's peaceful, but his mind is moving so fast, he barely keeps up. Occasionally, Mark will spasm or twitch, trying to shake away the negative thoughts, purge himself of the sadness. It doesn't work much, but it helps a slight bit.

Everything is his fault.


	24. Chapter Twenty Four

“Felix, I swear, I’m trying to find some free time,” Jack groans with exasperation, rubbing his face. For the past thirty minutes, his boyfriend has been whining over the fact they haven’t been able to hang out after school in ages.

“How come you were able to go out more before the trip?” Felix asks, pouting up at his boyfriend.

“Look, my dad caught me in my skinny jeans, and he’s been pretty strict since then,” Jack says matter of factly, glaring at the blond. Felix grimaces, cringing a bit.

“Yikes. How did that go?” the boy asks, immediately becoming sympathetic.

“He just told me to never wear them again, and that the world isn’t good for being different,” the brunet murmurs, looking down sadly as he crosses his arms in a self-hug. Felix sighs softly and leans over, wrapping his arms around Jack and hugging him gently.

“Everyone’s different. The world is meant to be different,” Felix murmurs, rubbing Jack’s shoulder.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” Jack grumbles, pulling away from Felix. The blond bites his lip, clasping his hands together in his lap.

“What about Sundays? We have that project in science. You could say you’re working on that and come over?” Felix proposes gently, knowing there isn’t much he could say to comfort Jack. If Jack didn’t want to talk about it, there isn’t much he can do. His own parents are okay with him being gay. They weren’t bursting with joy and acceptance when he came out, but they had both seen it coming. His mom just had a feeling while he was in the womb. His dad had surmised the truth when Felix accidentally printed out several photos of naked men that he had been trying to put in a private save file. So, both of his parents had already learned to accept it by the time he verbally told them.

“Umm… I can ask? I don’t know. Sundays are normally church and family days,” Jack says, brows furrowing.

“You can tell your parents to talk to mine about it. That way, they can confirm it, even though mine will also be lied to,” Felix snickers. Jack bites his lip thoughtfully and nods.

“I’ll talk to them tonight,” he adjudicates, giving his boyfriend a gentle kiss.

“Love you,” Felix hums between kisses. Jack mumbles it back before pulling him into a deeper kiss.

“Knock it off, you two!” the librarian calls from her desk. The two pull away, blushing, breathless, bright-eyed, and smiling.

“Sorry, young love, Mrs. Bridges,” Felix calls in his snarky, overconfident tone. Jack groans, facepalming as the teacher chortles and goes back to her computer. That evening, Jack talks with his dad first, then his mom, since the two get home at such different times. The parents discuss it the next morning when they get the opportunity. His mom delivers the news, asking for Felix’s mom’s number. Jack gives it to her, they confirm everything, and it’s allowed. Sunday rolls around a few days later, and Jack heads off with a backpack full of schoolwork and a pair of overnight clothes. He’s staying the night and going to school with Felix in the morning. Jack knocks on the door and is greeted by his boyfriend, a bright grin on his lips and grabbing hands to pull him inside.

“Mom made homemade pizza, it’s got about thirty minutes left before it’s done. In the meantime, let’s get everything started with work,” he says, pulling Jack up to his room. The glimmer in his eyes makes it very clear they aren’t going to be doing any work at all, even if his voice sounds very studious and earnest at the moment.

“Door stays open, you two!” Mrs. Kjielberg calls from the kitchen. Felix rolls his eyes, a smirk as he drags Jack upstairs and to his room.

“The stairs creak three steps in a row. No way anyone can sneak up on us,” he whispers to Jack. The brunet blushes a bit at the implications but nods as he deposits his bag in the corner. The pair plop down on the bed, notebooks to their sides for quick grabbing if they need to fake anything. Felix’s room is simple, minimalistic, but large. A queen-sized bed, a large desk, several shelving units, a tv, a walk-in closet. Jack takes it all in with a closed-off expression, revealing no emotion.

Felix starts rapidly chatting about his day at school, going on and on about the teacher who refused to change a wrong test answer. Even though Felix got definitive proof from a book in the library, the internet, and several other kids, they never changed it. Jack listens and hums lightly every once in a while. However, his primary attention is on how pretty Felix looks right now. Piercing blue eyes, bright white teeth, dirty blond locks falling over his forehead lazily. There’s no product in his hair at the moment, and Jack likes it, feathery soft and dangling teasingly. The brunet leans forward and brushes back Felix’s hair, sitting up to hover over his boyfriend slightly.

“You look good right now,” he compliments, connecting their lips in a soft kiss.

“And you look cute,” Felix returns, rolling them over a bit. Jack laughs softly and rolls his eyes, letting Felix lay between his legs.

“Okay, Mr. Scared-of-being-anything-close-to-a-bottom-for-one-second,” the brunet snorts, relaxing against the sheets.

“Hey!” Felix whines, blushing a bit. Jack giggles, shutting the blond up before he can comment something back with a soft kiss. Felix sighs softly against his lips, relaxing and resting on Jack’s side, the other holding him up a bit. Their lips slide together, and Jack tentatively licks over Felix’s bottom lip. The blond answers by opening his own mouth, using his tongue as well. They don’t get to kiss like this often, but oh, it feels so good. Jack lets out a soft, breath moan, and Felix replies with a gasp. Hands begin to roam, slipping underneath shirts, feeling over smooth skin. 

Then, there’s a squeak of wood. 

Felix bolts up.

“Go to the bathroom,” he hisses, pushing Jack toward the connected room. Jack huffs with shock and amusement, slipping inside as he sees Felix hurriedly fixing his hair and grabbing a notebook. Jack locks the door and turns on the fan, but listens carefully.

“Where’s Jack?” comes the deep voice of Felix’s father a few moments later.

“In the bathroom” Felix hums nonchalantly. Jack imagines him chewing on his pen to cover up how red his lips are, before scribbling something down, brows furrowed in faux concentration.

“Oh, well, dinner’s ready. Mom wants you to help set the table,” his dad says before heading back downstairs. Jack flushes the toilet and turns on the water as if just finishing up. He steps out a few moments later to a grinning Felix.

“You are…” Jack says, trying to think of the perfect, ostentatious, stupid, over the top word to describe Felix.

“Amazing? Fabulous? A fantastic actor?” the blond asks, wiggling his eyebrows. The brunet hugs and rolls his eyes.

“Incorrigible.”

“The fuck that mean?” Felix snorts, giggling. Jack grins and laughs with him.

“You’re hopeless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all. So, I messed something up. I have this story on several other websites and began posting it here later. Therefore, I post an old chapter here, and then new chapters on other platforms. I've slowly been working my way up to get them even, (the current book on other platforms is at chapter 31). However, I made a mistake and accidentally posted Chapter 23 as Chapter 13 here, back on June 20. So, I've corrected this error. Please go reread Chapter 13 now that's it's actually the correct chapter. Thanks so much to https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfiniteInferno/pseuds/InfiniteInferno for catching that!


	25. Chapter Twenty Five

The dark bedroom is an empty void. Blackout curtains are drawn tight, fan whirring at high speed, the door shut tight. A vacuum of darkness, where Mark can drift away, mind running wild and body calm. He tries. He tries so hard to make that reality. The noise-canceling headphones play calming ocean waves, crashing over him in a rhythmic lullaby. Yet, he’s not soothed. The rhythm is pierced by angry yells. Dad is having another shouting match with Tom.

Every single day, there seems to be an argument. His parents tag-team it, almost alternating in their attacks, trying to strike some reason into Tom. All Mark can do is hide and cry. He is ripping his family apart. He already did it with his parents, now he’s doing it with Tom. Mark ruins everything.

The boy lets out a soft sob, tears dripping onto his large hoodie as he curls his arms around his shins, tucking his legs up to his chest in a tight ball. He has the wave sounds up as loud as they will go- the breakers roar, crashing against him, trying to knock his thoughts down. Nothing can drown out his thoughts. They spiral and curl, ebbing, and flowing. They are like water themselves. He tries to control the flood, lets it slowly pool and drip from his hands, but the drizzle becomes a downpour, and the harder he squeezes his fingers to stop it, the more thoughts squelch out. They soak his mind, make it so hard to move, to breathe, to blink.

Mark is the stone carelessly tossed into the beautifully spun glass of his family. He causes all the cracks, all the chips. Mark is the epicenter of the radiating chasms that rip apart his family. A particularly loud shout makes him whimper, and he lets out another pathetic sob. All the young boy can do is cry. His mind is moving too fast, he struggles to keep up. It’s not like with Amy and Ethan. No, this isn’t lightspeed. His thoughts rip around him, blurs that incite terror. He’s stranded on a highway, thoughts speeding at ninety miles an hour around him. Everything is too much.

A few hours later, there’s a light knock on Mark’s door. He doesn’t hear it, having fallen into a fitful, uncomfortable sleep in the corner of his room.

“Mark?” comes the soft voice of his brother. The handle turns, and the door opens. A sliver of golden light from the hallways cuts into Mark’s void. Tom peers around the room, squinting as his eyes adjust to the darkness that seems to envelop the entire room, inky black and heavy. They focus on the bed first. However, there is no indicative lump, no fluffy black hair cascading over the pillow. Tom steps further into the room, brows furrowed as he inspects the surrounding area. 

His eyes eventually land on the dark mass curled up in the corner of the room. The soft, blinking blue light from Mark’s headphones further confirms the identity of the mass. Tom crouches down beside Mark, frowning. He can hear the wave sounds from here! Good grief! The college kid reaches forward and carefully takes off the headphones. Mark needs to be more careful, or he’ll end up with ear damage.

There’s a soft noise from the younger, and the boy slowly stirs, sniffling and blinking weakly. He shifts about, and his hands go to grab his headphones, frowning when he finds they are gone.

“You’ll get ear damage if you play these so loud,” Tom murmurs softly, moving to sit down in front of his brother. Mark jumps and flinches, wide brown eyes finding Tom in the darkness of his room.

“I’m heading out today. I was wondering if you wanted to go out to eat something first? I feel like a bad big brother,” Tom mutters, looking down. Mark stares at his old brother, eyes puffy and red from his crying.

“No. S’ my fault,” Mark mumbles, resting his chin on his knees as he averts his gaze.

“Not at all. I place zero blame on you. Mark, you are such a good brother. You try to come to all my meets, you are shockingly polite when it comes to sharing food, you don’t bother me when I’m with friends. You’re a great brother. No way is this your fault.”

“How’s it not? It was my panic attack,” Mark grunts, glaring angrily at the ground. He is pathetic, panicking during a goddamn film.

“I- Mark, you can’t control that,” Tom tries.

“Mr. Josh says I can,” Mark mumbles. Tom sighs, running a hand over his hair.

“Not all the time. My point is that I don’t blame you, alright? The adults are the ones at fault,” Tom murmurs. Mark scowls.

“So you’re just leaving? Like Dad?” Mark asks. Tom frowns.

“Yes. Like Dad. I have a life, Mark. Being in this family, with these parents, makes me feel horrible. I’m going somewhere where I’ll feel better. We’ll still hang out, don’t worry. I’ll basically be on campus, so that means when we hang, we’ll be a lot closer to all the cool places to eat and chill,” Tom says. Mark glares at the ground, tears burn at his eyes, beginning to form. Tom is leaving, just like Dad did.

“Fuck you, Tom,” he whispers, curling up more. His older brother freezes, eyes wide with shock.

“Sorry, what?”

“Fuck you! Selfish prick,” Mark hisses, tears dripping down his cheeks. Tom is leaving him. Being utterly selfish, over something so stupid. It’s just a few swim meets. Now he’s upturning the entire house, wreaking even more havoc in the family, over something so stupid.

“Excuse me? No. We are not doing this. I’m not selfish. Fuck you for being mad at me. I have feelings too,” Tom snaps back.

“I was in the fucking hospital! Of course, they rushed to see me! What if I had died! Would you still be moving out?!” Mark retorts, eyes full of rage.

“What the fuck, Mark? Serious, what the fuck? It’s not just that! It’s how they handled it! They didn’t bother telling me for hours, then over text! Fucking hell! Not everything is about you!” Tom seethes, climbing to his feet.

“I was in the hospital, Tom. I doubt getting a call from a stranger that your son is three hours away, unconscious on a hospital bed, is exactly the most calming thing. Here you are, reacting with ditching everyone!” Mark snarls, climbing to his feet as well.

“It’s not just this one thing!” Tom argues, fists clenching.

“That’s exactly what dad said after my attack in fourth grade!” Mark screams, tears streaking down his flushed face.

“It’s the fucking truth!” Tom roars.

“Liar! You’re a goddamn liar! You’re leaving me!” Mark shouts back, trembling with rage, despair, and hatred. Whether it was self-hatred or hatred for Tom, he could not say. He sees a sudden movement from Tom.

Thunder slams against his cheek a few moments later, and the eighth-grader groans, stumbling to the side as he clutches his cheek. He gasps in shock, eyes wide as he shakily turns to stare back at his brother. Tom hit him.

“Goodbye, Mark,” Tom hisses vehemently before he turns and storms out, tears of offense in his eyes and face flushed with outrage. His own brother, calling him a god damn liar. Here Tom was, trying to extend an olive branch, and Mark tosses it into the flames. Well, Mark can follow right with it down to hell.


	26. Chapter Twenty Six

Jack sighs softly, leaning over and resting his head on Felix’s shoulder. The blond answers the call for physical connection by wrapping an arm around Jack’s waist. Felix’s bedroom door is open, as requested by the parents each time. The last month of school had flown by, and Felix would be leaving soon. Boxes are stacked up, most things packed away, only a few things needed to get by still remain out. These days, Felix whines to Jack about not having access to his clothes. Normally, he would never wear the same thing twice within a month. Yet, here Felix is, living off of a steady rotation of three outfits.

“I’m going to miss you,” Felix murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to Jack’s temple. The brunet gives him a weak smile, staring down at the laptop, resting on Felix’s thighs.

“I’ll miss you too,” Jack whispers, nuzzling his nose into the crook of Felix’s neck and pressing a soft kiss there.

“What we’re doing makes sense, though,” his boyfriend adds. Jack sighs and nods. The two agree that the best course of action is to break up. Such a long-distance relationship simply is not feasible, especially during the most formative years that make up high school. Both of them know they will drastically change during the next four years. Being tied down to someone they can’t even physically hug during such a time is unreasonable.

“Still friends, though. You’re already my best friend, too,” Jack hastily replies, lifting his head to make eye contact. Hazy blue stare into ice, and the couple nods in sync.

“Of course, Jack. Always friends,” Felix whispers, leaning forward to connect their lips. Jack smiles into the kiss, letting the moment ride out until they pull away for a breather.

“You won’t be jealous if I find someone?” Jack asks, brows furrowed. Felix snorts.

“So long as you aren’t jealous when I’m getting some sweet ass in Sweden,” Felix replies. Jack smirks, devious mind playing a dangerous game.

“One could say some Swede ass.”

“Correction, we can’t be friends. You’re a monster,” Felix groans as Jack cackles, proud of the pun. He giggles, moving to straddle Felix’s hips after setting aside the laptop. Jack cups his boyfriend’s cheeks with his hands and smiles down at him.

“Mm, but you love me,” he murmurs, connecting their lips again. Felix grunts in response as his hands move to rest on Jack’s hips. Both agree it’s a bad idea to do anything more than kissing. They are just now finishing up eighth grade, after all. However, that doesn’t stop hands from wandering, squeezing over thighs, roving beneath clothing to feel over soft skin. 

One last time.

The next day, Felix leaves. Jack doesn’t cry. He stays strong, wanting to smile and say goodbye to his partner throughout the hellscape that was middle school. Not just his romantic partner. Best friend. Advisor. Gossiper. Study buddy. Geek friend. They were practically conjoined from the hip throughout middle school. Now Felix is gone.

Sean spends the summer lazing about, sleeping, taking care of his siblings, and doing nothing. It’s bliss to be listless. After the stress of keeping grades up, relaxing without a care in the world is utterly divine. Sean helps his parents out a lot, cleaning, cooking, babysitting. Other than that, he does nothing. Papa is quiet about any gay tendencies he sees in his son. He’s quiet about how happily Sean cooks and cleans- traits the conservative man considers feminine. Though, he has this sad look on his face every time Sean serves him food. The look is one of fear and sadness. It is as if a young person had died of a heart attack, and he’s just now hearing the news. Confusion. Defeat. A sense of disquietude.

One Sunday, they rearrange the apartment, cleaning things out, spicing the place up. Sean helps his dad move furniture. When they move the couch, Sean crouches down a bit, groaning and heaving with all his might. He manages to get it up an inch, but Connor stands up the whole way. He looks over at his son with a raised brow.

“You should be stronger. You need to start working out. Gain some muscle,” Connor says. Sean huffs, brows furrowing.

“I don’t do that type of stuff, Papa. I study all during school. I just want to relax right now,” he replies. Connor frowns.

“This isn’t something to do with you trying to be all feminine, does it?” he asks sharply. Jack huffs.

“I’m a guy. I don’t want to be feminine. I just don’t care about being strong that much. School is more important, Papa,” Jack says, biting his lip. His eyes burn a bit at how harsh his dad is about these things, and there’s a slight pressure with them.

“You need to be strong too. Start becoming a man. You’re going into high school next. Girls like strong guys,” Connor replies.

“They also like smart ones.”

“Being strong always helps.”

“Having money and a secure life is more important to me, Papa.”

“Sean, quit hanging out with that Felix kid. You two are… too close. Start working out more,” Connor replies. There’s no malicious glint in his eyes. There is only concern for his son, sad and uncertain.

“Papa, he’s in Sweden now. We literally can’t hang out anymore,” Sean murmurs softly. Tears well up at the thought. Connor falls silent, watching his son- with his bowed head, watching a few small tears drip down soft, young cheeks.

“I’m sorry, son. I know you two were best friends,” he mutters. Sean sniffles and wipes at his eyes.

“I miss him dad. He was my closest friend. I don’t really hang out with anyone else,” Sean whispers, voice higher and softer than usual. He looks up at his father, watery blue eyes showing his despair and loneliness. Connor sighs softly, sets down the couch, and steps over to hug his son.

“Losing friends is hard. Especially at your age. I remember how it felt when I lost my best friend. He went to a different high school. It was hard. It hurt. You can talk to me about it, Sean,” his father murmurs, hugging his son close.

“I don’t have anyone to make stupid jokes with anymore. No one else… got me,” Sean sniffles, crying into his dad’s shirt. Connor looks down at his son, eyes a swirling whirlpool of torn emotions. However, sadness rises to the surface, frothing and thick, riding the top of the choppy waves. Seeing his son suffering like this hurt.

“I’m sorry, Sean,” Connor murmurs. Sean slowly falls silent, crying softly and hugging his dad tight. He hiccups occasionally, but Papa doesn’t ever comment on anything. He lets Sean cry it out and occasionally whispers soft words of understanding or empathy. Sean leans into his father, clinging to him. Relief washes over him, happy to hug his dad, happy to bond. Even if the bonding is over loneliness, Sean clings to the connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Message me over on Quotev, at https://www.quotev.com/abbyschatty  
> I know most people on here use Tumblr, but I just... don't. Plus, you can find some of my older, shittier stuff on Quotev as well. If you want to do that.
> 
> Also, guys, I managed to shorten this thing down by twenty chapters. I had it planned for 89 chapters, but I got it down to 69. What a damn miracle. It's more succinct now, and plus...
> 
> NOICE.


	27. Chapter Twenty Seven

"Tom left," Mark whispers to his friends, slowly stirring his coffee. The ripples and swirls that twirl around in a miniature whirlpool, so affected by his slight movements. A twitch of the wrist creates waves across the hot surface. School is over, and even if Tom had been at the college dorms, he would have come home for summer. He hasn't. He is gone, his room empty, dust collecting. Food stays in the fridge a lot longer with one less person eating the meals. The house is so quiet. Especially now. Now that Mark is home for the summer, Mom at work. He's rarely been alone for such long periods. It shakes him a bit, to trudge down the stairs and see an empty home.

"What?" Amy asks, confused. She leans forward, hands wrapped around her iced tea as she rests her elbows on the table. The girl shares a concerned glance with Ethan before focusing back on Mark. She's technically still working, but it's one in the afternoon. The shop isn't busy right now.

"After… after NASA," Mark answers. Ethan frowns. The air is tense, heavy. Every word seems to push the air around, shifting the tone and space they reside in.

"That was like… almost two months ago," Ethan says, also perplexed.

"Yeah."

"Why… why now?" Amy prompts gently. Mark often forgets to explain things adequately. His friends try to avoid making it sound like an interrogation, but they need more details.

"He didn't come home for summer. It's just Mom and I," Mark whispers, tapping the spoon on his mug rim to rid it of excess coffee. He flinches at the sharp clink and hurriedly sets it down, shaking his head. A dribble of the brown drink runs onto the table. Ethan and Amy make eye contact, holding a silent conversation as they rack their minds for what to say. Neither wants to push Mark too far, but neither knows what's going on in his head.

"Why after NASA?" Ethan asks softly, reaching out to hand Mark a napkin for his spoon. A little brown droplet, misshapen and alone curls beneath the round side of the spoon. Mark takes it but doesn't notice the spoon. He begins tearing at it, ripping off tiny pieces as his brows furrow. He lifts his head as if to make eye contact. Ethan leans forward, yearning to catch that soft brown gaze that's so rare to see head-on. At the last second, Mark jerks his head away, staring at the bookshelf nearby.

"He got jealous because my parents came to the hospital and not his… not his swim meet," Mark explains, trying to formulate his words as best he can. Amy raises a brow. Alright, that's Mark's perception. He isn't good at picking up subtleties in emotions. However, neither Ethan nor Amy wants to challenge Mark's idea. He always gets flustered and panicky when they counter him. Walking on eggshells fails to describe the delicacy of their words whenever Mark gets emotional. It's more similar to the movements of someone trying to dismantle a bomb set to go off at any possible moment.

"I'm sorry, Mark," she says gently. Mark slouches back and takes his coffee into his hands, sipping lightly.

"He hit me when I got mad at him for being selfish," Mark mumbles, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Was that the bruise on your cheek the week you came back?" Ethan asks quietly. Mark nods.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Amy whispers.

"Cause Tom's an ass and I… I hurt," Mark whispers. Ethan looks at his friend with soft, wide eyes, sympathy knitting his brows. Mark isn't the best at explaining things. Still, the simplicity of his words can be more potent than anything Ethan or Amy can say.

"In what way?" Ethan asks.

"Like when Dad divorced Mom," Mark describes quietly, tears welling up. Amy moves from her seat to sit beside Mark on the small couch. She holds her arms up, asking Mark if he wants a hug. Mark nods once, and Amy leans over, wrapping her arms around the boy.

"It's not your fault," she murmurs. Mark hiccups and lets out a tiny whimper.

"But it is," he demurs, voice weak and crackly.

"Tom is overreacting. This isn't your fault," Ethan says in a firm but soft tone from where he sits. Mark nods in agreement, yet only cries harder.

"Fault as Catalyst."

"You are not the catalyst, Mark. You cannot blame others for their actions," Amy replies. She knows they don't have the full story. She knows Mark perceives the world and people differently. She believes there isn't much she can really do to help Mark. She believes it's best to keep him safe and happy, and as confident as possible in himself, because God only knows how many others try to break him down. It's not ideal, but his friends only want to keep him happy.

"Let's go out on Sunday. Go listen to some music?" Ethan proposes tentatively when Mark doesn't reply to Amy. The boy sniffles and thinks about it before nodding. Amy smiles softly and nods in agreement. On Sundays, Lola's doesn't open. It's her only free day.

That Sunday, they head out in the evening, money in their wallets, sunglasses perched on noses, grins on their faces. They head to a popular restaurant, laughing and talking as they sit down, the live-musician a beautiful background.

Mark sits with his back in the corner of the room, able to see everything. It helps keep him calm because he can see any noises that happen. It makes them less sudden. Fans whir around them, cars slowly drive past. The outdoor seating is kept as cool as possible, and the warm Austin air drifts by as fans push it along, flicking at napkins and teasing the tips of his hair. Mark leans back, relaxing as he observes the scene. His friends chatter away, letting him be the silent spectator.

He freezes, eyes catching on a profile view of tight cut hair on the sides, curling brown on top. A small, button nose, soft jawline, pointy- elvish- ears, and heavy brows all make up the picture. It's Jack, that guy from the football game. Fuck, he's hot. Mark had sent a few Snaps back and forth with Felix. Nothing serious, but what was Jack doing here? Where was Felix? From the Snaps they'd shared, the two boys were inseparable and were in a serious relationship. Every picture sent was of the pair of them: doing homework, hiking, watching a movie, making dinner, feeding the ducks at a pond.

Where's Felix? 

Mark checks Felix's Snapchat, brows furrowed. He sifts through the most recent photos, seeing a plane, a Swedish airport, pictures of moving boxes, declarations of "Back in the motherland!" from the blond. They all have the same casual chattiness and snarky tone Felix uses for his Snaps. However, there are a few more serious ones.

"Really gonna miss you guys. Make sure y'all be nice to Jack for me," is coupled with an old photo of a small squad of friends, Felix's arm wrapped tight around Jack, who looks uncomfortable, but leans into his boyfriend.

Huh, no wonder Jack looks down and out of it. He's lonely. Mark stares at the table, fidgeting about. This is a big decision. He huffs and shakes his head to himself, turning off his phone. No. Talking is too scary. It's best to just leave him alone.


	28. Chapter Twenty Eight

Jack shrugs on a shirt and skinny jeans, slipping out of the apartment after his parents have both left. Simon can handle being the oldest. Alli and Malcolm are both old enough to be good without an adult around, and between the three, they can take care of Susan. They have the emergency landline phone if they absolutely need it. It’s not the most responsible attitude from the thirteen-year-old, but his family feels suffocating. After Papa got mad at him for wearing his skinny jeans, his siblings have been undercover spies, eyes wide and mouths silent whenever Jack does anything kind of gay. That is... silent until Papa gets home. Then they tattle, voice prattling on and on about the most meaningless shit he’s done. Jack knows he used to be that way, a carbon-copy of his parents’ ideals and beliefs. Oh, how things have changed.

He spends most of his time wandering around Austin, backpack with one sandwich and bottle of water, old sunglasses, a jacket, several library books, an old Sudoku book, a notepad, and a pencil. Jack wanders the old historic districts, the main downtown, the fun, “quirky” blocks meant to attract tourists. He’ll slip into open restaurants and listen to the live-musicians, order water, and that’s that. He always leaves when they ask, polite, and thankful for the water. Typically, it takes about twenty minutes. Then he goes back to roaming, alone and lonely. Jack decides it’s similar to how a male lion lives, wandering about and trying things out at different prides, but others generally push him away. His fate is to roam the Serengeti, alone and hungry.

It’s late one day, later than he usually stays out, but this bar hasn’t bothered him, and the musician is good. Besides, he made himself a homemade lemonade with the sugar packets and the lemon slices that came with the water. The drink was refreshing, and he almost felt like an ordinary patron. He bobbed his head along, humming to the rendition of Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” and smiling lightly.

The fan he sits beside whirs softly, ruffling his hair. People chatter away around him. Silverware clinks against plates, ice cubes tinkle as the patrons stir their drinks, chips crunch as they munch down on nachos, or perhaps a spinach-artichoke dip. The barbeque smells delicious, the scent wafting from the kitchen out to the outdoor eating area. Jack’s stomach growls.

“Hey Jack!” comes a soft call. The boy tenses up, shoulders drawing in, head ducking. Someone caught him in the act, freeloading. He hurriedly packs up the few things he has out back into his bag, knowing it’s time to get out of dodge. Jack freezes as a gentle hand rests on his shoulder. He turns and looks at the person who blew his cover, outing his dastardly plans.

“Oh, hey… Ethan?”

“Yup! It’s great to see you! What are the chances, huh?” Ethan asks, grinning.

“Undoubtedly slim. Hey, listen, I was just heading-”

“Wanna hang with us? It’s me, Amy, and Mark. We came out to have some fun, and you were a fun guy. A total beneficial addition if you ask me!” Ethan inquires happily.

“Umm… I…”

“It’s alright if you don’t want to, but Mark’s kind of been sneaking glances at you for the past ten minutes, and since he didn’t say anything, I decided to speak up!” Ethan reassures that same innocent smile on his lips. Those same gentle eyes, crinkling at the corners, warm and inviting gaze hopefully at him. Those gentle eyes are so sweet and loving as if Jack is the most exciting person he’s met. Jack feels a bit like a lion again, staring at a gazelle. Jack isn’t much for social interaction. He’s often too busy. He’s always been the loner. Always the outcast, except with Felix. However, perhaps it wouldn’t hurt. They were going to the same high school next year anyway. Hanging with the nerdy kids from other schools was a good plan.

“If it’s not a bother,” Jack murmurs, gaze flickering to Mark, who is in the corner of the patio, resolutely staring at the table. It must have a fascinating design etched into it. The boy seems as if he’s deciphering some ancient code with how hard he is concentrating.

“Not at all!” Ethan effuses, clapping Jack on the shoulder. “Three’s fun, but four’s a party!” he quips. Jack chokes on his own saliva. Oh goodness, this innocent boy with hazel eyes had no idea what he was saying.

“Ethan, I don’t think-”

“Oh, I know,” Ethan said, breaking down into devious giggles. Jack flushes, glaring, and shoving Ethan’s shoulder gently as he stands.

“Oi, no need for that!” he huffs, smiling with amusement. Jack got a moment of deja vu when Felix did something similar. The situations feel like replicas of each other: mirrors of new beginnings. He makes his way over, drink in hand. Amy smiles and waves, tilting her head to the side. Jack slides into the empty seat across from Mark, Ethan on Jack’s right, and Amy on his left. The wood of the table does not have any fascinating designs imparted upon its rough surface. Though Mark still finds it fascinating.

“When the waiter brings out your order, make sure you flag him over here,” Ethan reminds Jack. The boy chuckles and shakes his head.

“I didn’t order anything yet,” he lies as if it was as natural as breathing. Technically, it’s true, but keeping the hitch out of his voice, or stopping his body from tensing on the “yet” takes practiced skill. Ethan nods as Amy pipes up.

“That’s great! That way, he won’t get all confused then. Makes his life a hell of a lot easier,” she says happily. Jack smiles and nods, taking a sip of his free lemonade. His throat felt a bit dry. Was the situation tense? Can they tell that he’s lying? Jack thinks it’s obvious, the way he swallows and his adam’s apple bobs so drastically. It’s stones, he’s swallowing stones with each slight lie, collecting them and hoping they don’t pile up in his gut for too long.

He chats with them and informs them that Felix has gone back to Sweden. Ethan and Amy frown, sad for the loss, and commiserate with Jack, giving him sweet apologies. Mark stays quiet.

Jack internally frowns, a bit confused. His friends seem to wholly accept this behavior, but Mark isn’t even engaged in the conversation. The black hair curls and drapes over his brow, and he just stares at the table, drawing lines over it and tracing small cracks and scrapes. Neither Amy nor Ethan are perturbed by this behavior.

“Yes, Felix sends Snaps with Mark occasionally, but I don’t think he sent anything about moving. Did he, Mark?” Jack asks the kid across from him. Mark frowns and shakes his head, shoulders drawing in a bit more.

“Huh, I wonder why. What did you guys last talk about? I always think it’s funny to hear these conversations from other people’s perspectives because Felix is such a drama queen. He once whined about one of his friends saying they didn’t like chocolate for a whole day,” Jack says, eyes still zeroed-in on Mark.

“Just school,” Mark shrugs.

“What about school? Like, some test, annoying teachers, annoying kids, what in particular?”

“Particularly, differing flavors of sherbet between our cafeterias. Orange versus strawberry,” Mark mutters.

“Oh, I remember that. Fe was whining about a lack of diversity in our options,” Jack giggles, smiling a bit now that Mark is talking.

“But it isn’t some corporate business?” Mark frowns. Ethan, Amy, and Jack laugh at that.

“Ah yea, just trying to up our sherbet diversity. You know, the liberals these days get outraged if you don’t have a strawberry cup on the team!” Ethan pipes up. The group laughs again, and Mark sits thinking for a very long moment before he starts laughing as well. The atmosphere seems to relax a bit after that. No one judges Jack when he says he’s not buying anything. The group orders nachos, and Amy forces Jack to eat his fair share. Well, more than his fair-share, because he won’t be getting an entree. The same thing happens with dessert. They order a lava cake with ice cream. Ethan asks for three spoons, and Mark frowns.

“Four,” the kid mumbles, fidgeting with his watch.

Ethan and Amy glance over at Mark with a smile and nod in agreement.

“Yeah, four,” Ethan corrects. Jack blushes and pouts, sinking lower in his seat.

“One fork is going unused y’all,” he announces. Amy rolls her eyes and smiles. When the dessert comes, they heckle Jack until he eats some. Good grief, these kids are insane. Jack is stuffed with more calories than he usually eats for an entire day in one sitting. He relaxes back, making jokes with them and trying to keep Mark involved. Jack still notices how the other two don’t seem to make much of an effort to include Mark. Jack wonders why as they talk, but either way, he decides it’s his permanent mission to cleave Mark from his shell. He isn’t like a turtle, Mark isn’t attached to the shell. Mark can crawl out at any time. Perhaps he just needs some coaxing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for awhile y'all. I'm prepping for the ACT and I spent a total of about fifteen hours learning trigonometry this weekend. I cried three times over graphing sine and cosine functions. I have a weird love-hate relationship with math. Like, I enjoy learning about some of it, however, my brain just isn't... wired for it. I don't think like a mathematician. When I give up on a question and look at the little "help guide", sometimes I'm just like... "I would've never thought of that."
> 
> HOWEVER, I'm doing really good now! I got a 34 on the ACT I took today, with 57/60 math questions!! My English/Grammar was actually the worst section XD


	29. Chapter Twenty Nine

Mark smiled through the dinner. He smiled, nodded, answered when asked anything, and engaged. As much as his friends tried to make him feel better, it didn’t work. He kept the happy exterior up for dinner, but once he got home, it was back to nothing. An empty heart, residing in an empty body, residing in an empty house. His mom worked more night shifts now since she didn’t have to drive Mark around as much in the summer. Tom didn’t text him. Then again, Mark didn’t either.

He drifted aimlessly through the summer. As the days warmed, he only felt colder. It started small- a tiny snowflake, delicate and tentative. On most days, the bitter thoughts don’t land. The heart is too warm, the mind gentle. However, the snowflake fluttered to rest upon a lonely soul, cold and wanting. It seemed comforting, to reminisce and wallow in the sadness. Each snowflake was beautiful in its own right, holding a dark, crystalline, hard beauty. Each one was delicate. However, as the thoughts began to pile up, forming banks and drifts, Mark found it harder and harder to wade through the snow.

It had found a welcoming heart, a moment where Mark accepted it, allowed it to land. Then, it had grown. One thought became five, then ten, twenty, forty. It wasn’t too long before every thought was cold- freezing him, encasing him in pain and regret. He began ignoring Ethan and Amy’s texts first. Then, he missed one of their “coffee dates,” so one became two. Two became three. Three became a pattern. On Sundays, Ethan and Amy would come to his house, ring the doorbell, peer through the windows by the door, then step back to stare up at the window to Mark’s bedroom. It was always dark.

School begins in much the same fashion. He goes to the Freshman days at strange hours, picking up his schedule late, and meeting his teachers early. All the odd hours help him avoid his friends. Well, they probably aren’t going to be his friends much longer. No doubt, they are frustrated with him. Certainly, they think he’s being an asshole and completely ignoring them. Indubitably, they know he’s a lousy friend, and it’s time to finally cut him off. He was holding them back anyway.

With this in mind, he doesn’t go to the cafeteria on the first day of school. He hides out in his fourth-period classroom with his teacher. It’s English, a class Mark is not very good at, but his teacher doesn’t know that yet. So, he plans to take full advantage and get on his good side before any possible fall-out over poor grades. The teen digs through his bag, removing his lunch from the pack and munching on it quietly. He doesn’t whip out his phone. He doesn’t pull out a book. He doesn’t even look around the classroom; any possible entertainment he wants in his head- amidst the whirring thoughts and the blizzard of snow.

Ethan and Amy go through the lunchline, talking softly and worriedly peering over the horde of students. Neither of them has seen Mark since halfway through summer. He has effectively avoided them. The pair carry their trays and wander through the cafeteria, down row and row of chattering students. They ask a few kids if they’ve seen Mark, and a few confirm that yes, he is at the school. Ethan checks his phone and glances at Amy.

“We only have fifteen minutes left,” he says quietly to his friend. Amy frowns and shifts from foot to foot, staring over the crowd.

“I.. I guess let’s just sit down with Bob and Wade?” she proposes. Ethan sighs and nods. They two sit down with the squad of friends they know reasonably well. As Amy places her tray down, she hears a call from a nearby table. She stands and peers around.

“Hey, Amy, come sit with us!” calls a girl from a few tables to the left. She’s a junior in Amy’s drama class. It’s the theatre kid squad. Amy glances back at Ethan nervously, but Ethan smiles.

“Go ahead,” he says with a smile, waving her off gently. Amy smiles brightly and pats his shoulder before grabbing her tray and hurrying over. She sits down as the kids start chattering away, happy to have the new girl. Lunch passes, and soon, seventh-period rolls around. It’s the final period of the day. Ethan steps into class, freezing when he sees Mark in the back, slumped down and blankly staring at his desk.

“Mark, holy shit. Where have you been?” Ethan whisper-yells as he rushes over and sits beside his friend. Mark flinches and blinks a couple of times.

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t answered any of our texts, you haven’t come to get coffee, you haven’t even answered your own door. We tried to find you at lunch. Where the hell were you?” Ethan asks, brows knit with worry for his friend. Mark shrugs.

“I guess I just didn’t think about it,” he mumbles, not making eye contact. Ethan sighs softly and gently flicks Mark on the side of the head.

“Don’t do that to us, man. We were really worried about you,” the teenager says softly, hurt, and sadness in his voice. Mark flinches again.

“Sorry,” he replies, eyes glued to his desk. Ethan huffs and leans over, taking Mark’s binder. He digs through and pulls out the purple paper that freshman schedules were printed on. Mark glances at him before going back to staring at the desk. Ethan snaps a photo of the schedule and puts it back, sliding the binder back to Mark’s desk. A silence falls between them. Mark pays attention as the teacher starts talking. Ethan glances over at him occasionally. Neither communicates much.

Everything is cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting in a bit! I was prepping for, and taking, the ACT all through Saturday, then it took me a couple of days to get back into a steady system that did not involve hours of math every day!
> 
> In other good news, I got fives on my AP Statistics, Environmental Science, and Language & Composition exams! I got on four on AP U.S. History too! Hurray!
> 
> I also got these mason jars that fit my markers and colored-pens perfectly, so that's all "aesthetic" now, and I organized my desk a bit more. I have this urge to declutter, but my room is already extremely uncluttered. Alas, the struggles of being minimalistic. I also organized a drive/folder system for an organization I'm in, which took hours upon hours because it was a mess.
> 
> Life is good, I'm doing a Chloe Ting shredded arms challenge, practicing the cello, and I'm back to writing! Hurray!


	30. Chapter Thirty

"Sean!" comes the loud yell of his mother from the kitchen. The teen bolts upright from where he's lazing about on the couch in response. Blankets rustle and fall to the floor, his armor against the morning shedding as he makes his way to the kitchen.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You haven't done the dishes. You haven't cleaned the bathrooms. You haven't vacuumed," his mother snaps sharply. Her arms are crossed, hip popped out, glare dialed into one-hundred. It's early, too early for this. Sunlight is just now poking through the cracks of the city, through alleyways and windows. The air is only now beginning to shed its cool breeze, turning hot and heavy.

"I haven't been around," Jack shrugs, hands slipping into his joggers' pockets as he slouches, leaning back against the counter.

"Exactly!"

Jack flinches.

"This is the third week in a row, Sean! It's unacceptable. If you aren't going to pick up the slack around the house, you need to get a job."

"Ma!" Jack yelps, straightening up in alarm at the sharp proposition. His mother rears herself to her full height, shoulders drawing back, and chin high. The look she sends him sears away any whining he had been about to do.

"We cannot afford laziness, Sean," she chastises, her voice soft. The truth cuts through the early morning air sharper than anything else she has said prior during the conversation. The teen ducks his head, nodding as he lets out a defeated breath. His hands slip from his pockets to rub at his bleary eyes, and at that moment, he feels so inadequate. He will never be what his family needs. Jack is not a confident, persevering, strong son. Jack is a nervous, confused, stressed wreck of a kid.

"I'm sorry, Ma," the teen murmurs, voice breathless with exhaustion and defeat. She steps forward, crossing the space between them in a matter of seconds. It feels like hours as if she is crossing some canyon and building the bridge along the way.

"I love you, Sean," she reassures quietly, hugging him. Jack lifts his arms, hugging back and resting his head on her chin, slouching a bit.

"I love you too, Ma," he replies, his voice weak. She presses a kiss to his temple and pulls away, rubbing his upper arm for a moment before drawing away and gathering her purse and things to head to work.

"Please clean up the house. Also, your siblings want to go to the bible school thing at church around five. Take them, please," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Jack nods, still slouching against the sink. She looks at him for a long moment, lips pursed, before heading out the door. It shuts with a click, and the kitchen is silent. Papa will be heading out soon as well, but for a moment, the house feels empty. Jack is alone in a room, which is a miracle for his family of seven. Not that it much matters. He's lonely nevertheless.

Sean does a better job of staying home more often, caring for the younger siblings and keeping the apartment in order. It's not too long before school is starting up again. The new high school is enormous and more than a little overwhelming, but he manages. During lunch, Jack sneaks off to the computer lab and searches up job listings in the area. Something easy that's not manual labor because he doesn't like physical work. A job in the restaurant industry seems appropriate.

"Lola's Coffee," he mumbles to himself, seeing the pretty, lilac font of their sign. It's only a few blocks out of the way from his regular path to and from school, which would make his life much more straightforward. The description of the place is short and sweet, but the job specification is much longer. It looks simple, though, and they are particularly requesting someone who can work in the late afternoon through the early night. This fits perfectly with school, and it will still give him a couple of hours to do homework and study beforehand as well. No prior skill is required, which is good because he has none. Jack pulls the request into a new tab before continuing his search on the original site. During the rest of the lunch, he collects several other possible opportunities within a reasonable distance and prints them all out.

A few more days pass. Jack uses his free time to draft up his resume on the school computers. Any time not spent on schoolwork is spent practicing for interviews. Since he has no prior experience, he really focuses on touting how well he does in school, while still balancing taking care of his family. He tries to work in being very organized and driven into every answer to each hypothetical question he poses to himself. After he sends in his resume, he waits. Every day, during lunch, Jack checks his email, desperate for a reply back.

A few days later, a reply comes. It's Lola's! He has an interview at six in the evening on Friday. It's relatively late, but Jack guesses it makes sense. It's a coffee shop, and if they're short on helping hands, the interview needs to be during lax hours. The reply says to come wearing a black shirt and black jeans, along with black shoes. Jack considers that a stroke of luck. Good thing he already owns all that stuff. His regular tennis shoes are black. If he's being asked to wear a sort of uniform, perhaps he will be doing a practical interview? Jack frowns. His nerves are beginning to kick in as the initial excitement fades. What if he spills something?

Jack walks in on Friday, a few minutes early, wearing the requested outfit. He takes in the atmosphere, chortling at the sign on the bookcase. It's the same beautiful calligraphy as the sign. He stands in the doorway for a moment before brightening up. Oh! Amy's here! She's sitting in a booth, leaning back and smiling at Jack. The teen waves and hurries over, sitting down across from her.

"Hey, Amy!" he greets brightly, happy to see a friend. It certainly calms his nerves. Jack doesn't see anyone at the register. Perhaps they're in the back right now.

"Hey Jack, how's it going?"

"Good!" Jack says before deliberating a moment, "Actually, a bit nervous."

"Oh? Why's that?" Amy asks, tilting her head to the side and giving him an inquisitive smile.

"I'm trying to get a job, and this is my first interview. It's the only place that replied back when I sent out my resume. So, if this fails, I have to do the whole process again. It's taken me weeks just to get to this point," Jack says. With only about fifteen minutes a day at lunch after collecting his food from the cafeteria, job hunting is incredibly tricky. Amy smiles a bit wider and nods.

"Well, the coffee here is delicious, and the people who run the place are nice. Why do you think they picked you for the job?" Amy inquires. Jack laughs and shrugs, relaxing back.

"I don't have any prior experience, so I don't quite know. However, I'm really organized, and my school grades are great. I don't have a lot of access to the internet, so most of my studying is self-teaching with the help of old textbooks. Hopefully, my work-ethic really stands out to them," Jack hums.

"Do you have any experience with… service? As in dealing with customers or people in any way, shape, or form?" Amy asks curiously. Jack thinks for a moment, sitting up and leaning forward as they chat.

"Anytime I spend not on schoolwork is spent on my family. My parents work a lot, and I take care of my little siblings. I've got four, so I'm dealing with tweens down to toddlers," Jack chuckles. Amy laughs softly.

"How does that generally go?"

"Hm, well, it usually goes pretty well. Dealing with them, I've built up a thick skin and a lot of patience over the years. Whenever there's an argument or they don't want to do a chore, things get a bit rough. However, I generally just talk slowly and explain things calmly. Even the really little ones will calm down if you just treat them with respect."

Amy grins.

"Well, let's go start your practical portion," she hums, gathering up her coffee and standing. As she rises, Jack finally sees what she's wearing. A dark purple apron with lilac calligraphy on the front. He gawks. Amy giggles.

"You work here?!"

"Yeah, my dad owns the place. It's the family business," Amy laughs. Jack blinks a couple of times and holds the sides of his head for a moment.

"Oh gosh, I screwed up the interview, didn't I?" he asks morosely. Amy grins impishly.

"You won't know until I give you my final decision," she replies mischievously, walking to the counter and slipping behind. She steps into the back and puts her mug into the sink. Jack follows after a moment of deliberation.

"Put on the apron and hat over there. If I decide you get the job, they will be your responsibility to keep clean and bring with you to work each day," she says. Amy points to the side where another apron and a dark purple hat sit, washing her mug with impressive efficiency.

"Are they safe for washers and dryers?" Jack asks. Amy positively beams.

"Excellent question! Yes, safe for both, but only in gentle settings. Don't turn the heat too high, and no high spin speeds either."

Amy brings Jack along, having him shadow her as she works through the next several hours. He asks questions for further details and possible scenarios, but for the most part, Jack picks everything up with ease. At nine-thirty, Amy turns the sign to the "Closed" side as the last few stragglers file out. She talks Jack through cleanup and such, and time seems to fly. By ten-thirty, the only thing left to do is turn off the lights and lock up. Amy does so, and the pair stands out front, staring at each other. Jack is nervous. Amy is smiling.

"You pretty much had the job when I saw who the resume was from. I know you're a good guy, and you're smart and hardworking. There will be a month-long period where you and I will work in the shop together. Your hours are fur to lock-up, which is at ten-thirty if you do everything right. After the month, you'll be working in the shop alone. I work two hours directly after school, as well as the hours before school. My dad runs the place during the day. It's great to have you, Jack," Amy says with a gentle smile as she holds out her hand. Jack takes in the information with shock.

"I… I have the job?"

"Yup!" Amy answers. Jack strains to keep his face calm. He smiles lightly and nods, shoulders dropping with relaxation at the news. He shakes her hand with appreciative vigor.

"Thank you, it means a lot."

"It's entirely impersonal," Amy hums with an impish grin. "You start Monday, clean your apron and hat on gentle cycles. Goodnight Jack!" Amy adds before turning and walking off. Jack stands there, watching her leave for a moment, taking it all in. He lets out a deep breath that he didn't know he'd been holding in. After a self-congratulatory fist pump, the teen turns, walking off. He tries clicking his heels but stops that nonsense after he almost falls face-first into a stop sign.

He got the job.


	31. Chapter Thirty One

Mark isn’t in the cafeteria the next day either. He doesn’t show up for a whole week. Ethan and Amy decide it’s time to look for him after this becomes a pattern. They skip lunch and go to class by class, using Mark’s schedule to track him down. They get to his fourth-period class and step inside, smiling awkwardly at the teacher. After a quick explanation that they’re looking for Mark, the teacher lets them in. Amy’s shoulders drop, and Ethan frowns as they see Mark. He’s sitting in the back corner on the floor, curled up into a ball. He doesn’t seem to have any lunch with him.

“I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping,” the teacher notifies as they sit down again. Ethan and Amy nod morosely, moving to take seats at nearby desks.

“He’s never avoided us like this before. Did we do something?” Amy whispers quietly to Ethan, worry evident in her voice. Ethan shakes his head, a deep frown on his face.

“He’s nice to me in seventh-period. He doesn’t act mad,” Ethan demurs, glancing over at Mark.

“So what’s going on?” the girl asks, throwing her hands up in exasperation.

“He’s shutting us out. We have to help him,” Ethan decides.

“If he’s shutting us out, there isn’t much we can do for him. How are we supposed to be good friends if he won’t even talk to us?” Amy murmurs in response, running a hand through her hair.

“We have to be there for him, you know? Every day, come in here, eat lunch, try to talk to him, and he’ll slowly open back up,” Ethan proposes, trying to sound hopeful. He doesn't feel optimistic. Amy stares at Ethan for a long moment, deftly reading through the thin veil of optimism Ethan tries to wrap his words in.

“Ethan, I can’t do that. They moved me up to one of the higher theatre classes. It changes next week, you know that. I’m going to have the other lunchtime,” Amy states quietly. Ethan sighs softly, rubbing his face tiredly. This friendship is taking a lot of work to try and hold together.

“Okay, umm… I can do it, though. When he starts opening up more, I’ll bring him over to Lola’s, alright?” Ethan decides, tired, and concerned for his friend. Amy chews on her lip for a moment before nodding.

“Sounds good. I’m gonna be working two to four now. I hired Jack to help out,” Amy informs with a worn smile. Ethan sits up and beams.

“Hey! That’s really great! I know you’ve been absolutely exhausted with all that!” Ethan exclaims with genuine joy and excitement. Amy smiles slightly and nods pensively, eyes on the floor.

“Dad just… isn’t the same anymore,” she murmurs. Ethan sobers up at the statement.

“After…?” he asks, implying when her mom died of cancer. When that had happened, Amy had begun to work a lot more at the coffee shop. Her dad almost followed Lola, solely due to grief. He was sick for weeks with a cold that he refused to fight back against. In fact, he is still much frailer than before- a man in his late thirties with the wrinkle lines of a sixty-year-old. Despair hit him hard. Amy wishes Dad would smile again. She wishes Dad would take a look at the paperwork and bills. She wishes Dad would talk to her.

Amy nods. She sighs, rubs her face, and slumps back in her seat. Ethan leans forward, resting his head on the desk and tiredly gazing at Mark. The trio is silent.

A few weeks pass by, and Mark currently sits in seventh-period. He’s disgruntled and snappish. The entire day has been abnormal and off-putting for him. It was all because of the torrential rain pouring forth from the heavens since early this morning. For the first few periods, his socks had been a bit wet. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything else. The soggy feeling, the way it softened his skin, the cold cotton. Then, the rain became a thunderstorm around lunchtime. Every single attempt Mark made to focus was ripped apart by a crack of lightning or a clap of thunder. So, here he sits in seventh-period, glaring at the slideshow as his teacher lectures. The lights flicker, then there’s a massive boom of thunder. The entire building shakes before all the lights go out.

Some idiot screams, and Mark takes in a sharp inhale. The volume in the classroom sharply rises as people begin to chatter rapidly. The teacher yells over the room, trying to regain control of the situation. Mark feels his thoughts starting to rush. He squeezes his eyes closed, pressing his clicker and trying to control the flood. He begins hyperventilating, and oh, God, it’s too much. Mark opens his eyes, gasping for air. He can’t stop. He can’t stop. Everything is happening so fast. It’s all so loud, so much. He manages out a strangled gasp for help, and Ethan turns, along with the majority of the class. Ethan moves to stand in front of Mark, blocking out the teen’s sightlines.

“Focus. What color is my hair?” Ethan asks, brows furrowed with worry. Mark whimpers, tears welling up. He knows this one. It’s a common question for when this happens.

“Brown,” he wheezes out, Ethan smiles and nods, moving to rest his hands on Mark’s shoulders, blocking more of his peripheral vision.

“What time is it?”

“2:30,” Mark breathes, closing his eyes tightly. Tears drip down his cheeks as he trembles.

“Who are you?” Ethan asks his grip tight on Mark’s shoulders to stop them from rising and falling with each violent breath.

“Mark.”

“Mark-what?”

“Mark Fischbach,” the teen answers, taking a weak, shuddering breath.

“Where are you?”

“Seventh-period,” Mark says, slouching back a bit as he pulls away and wipes his eyes. His shoulders curl in. He’s ashamed. The class is silent, staring in the dark.

The next day, Amy sits with her friends during her new lunch period, chatting about random topics. At the other end of the table, a few girls are leaning around one with a phone, giggling at something.

“Look at this kid, he freaked out yesterday when the lights went out yesterday,” one says, sliding her phone over to Amy’s side, and everyone looks over it. They laugh, seeing the kid shaking and crying. Amy sits silent, worry curling in her gut. The Snapchat video replays. It’s got over a thousand views already.

“Literally still scared of the dark,” a boy snickers.

“Oh! That’s that kid… what’s his name… Mark? He’s been on everyone’s stories,” a girl laughs. Amy’s hands curl into fists.

“He’s not scared of the dark,” Amy demurs quietly, brows furrowed.

“Why’d he get all panicky then?” the girl asks, raising her brows.

“He just… had a bad day,” Amy defends. She knows Mark wouldn't want her to talk about his Asperger's. Mark would sooner die than let people know he was "dysfunctional," as he puts it.

“Obviously,” a guy snickers. Amy falls silent as the group laughs and moves onto other topics. In Theatre class a few periods later, there’s a substitute teacher. So, everyone sits in a circle on the floor, phones out, and chattering away. The topic of Mark rolls around again.

“Yeah, I had to go get a letter of recommendation from my Freshman teacher. That Mark kid was just sitting in the corner during lunch, not even eating anything. He’s really weird,” a girl shares, eyes wide and earnest. She nods while she talks as if trying to convince everyone that this was critical, reliable information.

“Is he like… antisocial or something?” one girl whispers to the group, nose wrinkled and brows knit in appalled apprehension.

“Honestly, who knows. He’s really weird. In the hallways, he walks with these giant ass headphones all the time,” another says.

“Amy, weren’t you friends with him in middle school?” a guy pipes up, tilting his head and looking at the freshman. Amy tenses and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, stalling for time.

“Umm… yeah,” she answers.

“Ew! Why! He’s so creepy!” a girl giggles, reeling back a bit as she covers her mouth. Everyone looks sheepish, shoulders tucked in, heads bowed. They know this is wrong. They know they shouldn’t be talking about this. They know it’s cruel. They don’t really care.

“I heard he’s a furry. He flicks his head around a lot and fidgets weird,” a guy pipes in. Everyone laughs and snickers.

“What? No!” Amy exclaims, horrified by the idea.

“So why’d you hang out with him? That’s really weird, Amy. Not it at all, chief,” a girl asks, confused by the thought. Amy stares down at the carpet, picking at a loose thread.

“He’s kind of weird,” she admits, voice quiet. The freshman shifts a bit where she sits, uncomfortable with all the upperclassmen dragging Mark like this.

“So why’d you chill with him? Did you two date? God, that’s weird to think about,” another girl inquires, nose wrinkling. The disapproval from the group toward Amy hanging out with Mark is evident.

“He got weirder in high school. In middle school, he was fine. Now he’s weird,” Amy says, ducking her head as she quietly talks. Her gut curls with internal revulsion.

“So you don’t hang out with him anymore?” a guy asks for clarification. Amy nods, jerking the loose thread from the carpet. The attention seems to shift from her, and the conversation continues. Amy goes to the restroom. After washing her hands, she pauses and looks into her eyes.

It’s probably for the best, she excuses. Mark doesn’t want to be friends with her anyway. He hasn’t answered a text of hers for months. He doesn’t talk with her in classes. He never shows up at Lola’s anymore. Yes, it’s for the best. It’s time to cut ties. Mark wants it. He’s been trying to end the friendship for months. Amy is just now realizing it. It’s time to come to her senses. It’s what Mark wants.

She nods to herself and fixes her jacket. Maybe she should start wearing eyeliner. The other girls in Theatre do it. If she wants a good role in the upcoming production, she probably should start trying to look more grownup. This play is a very solemn, serious production. Yes. New school. New friends. New Amy.


	32. Chapter Thirty Two

Jack is never one for stupidity. He is always careful to draw a fine but distinct line between obnoxiousness and stupidity. Being loud all the time is one thing. Being loud over absolutely nothing of importance is another. As a resident loud-ass-bitch, he considers it imperative to draw this line. He will admit he can be obnoxious occasionally, but Jack refuses to believe he has ever been blatantly stupid. Therefore, he is proud to stand on the correct side of the line. Unfortunately, the idiots who scream and chatter when the lights go out definitely fall onto the wrong side of the line.

One thing Jack knows about stupidity is that he can't stop it. No force on Earth can stop foolishness in its purest form. So, when kids babble away, waving their phone flashlights around and making incessant chatter, Jack ignores it. He furrows his brows and bends over his homework, straining to make it out in the weak glow from the classroom's one emergency light. Reacting to nature so obnoxiously is stupid. See how fine the line is? Obnoxiousness hastily becomes stupidity when in the right scenario.

Jack will never understand reactions like screaming when it thunders. Jack loves the rain. It reminds him of Ireland. When he was younger, Ma would tell him stories about Ireland. She would talk to him about ancient Celtic gods and goddesses, and spend hours on their tales. Taranis comes to mind now. The ancient thunder god, a stern figure, powerful. He is similar to the Roman god, Jupiter, and the Greek god, Zeus. As thunder booms and rolls overhead, Jack thinks of Taranis. Perhaps he is angry. Do gods become mad over petty things after so many years of immortality? Maybe he is just bored. Jack chuckles at the thought. What comes to mind most prominently is that Taranis is lonely. Jack winces at the thought. He should not relate so much to a myth about a god that he's projecting his own feelings onto. He brushes away his musings and refocuses on the schoolwork at hand.

Rain patters on the rooftop and against the classroom window, hard and heavy. It streaks through the air in long lines. Thick sheets shatter and slide across the puddles formed in the parking lot, splattering water in long lines as the wind pushes surge after surge of rain through the air. Trees whip about in the violent winds, leaves ripped from their limbs to spiral through the air, doomed to a lonely fate. They will tumble along, thrashed about on angry gusts before falling into a gutter with other isolated leaves, all lonely together. Jack yawns and leans back, looking around with boredom. The teacher begins to reign in the class again, starting to lecture at the whiteboard and using their own phone flashlight so students could see. The world outside speaks of rage and power. Inside, the class is already back to a dull, normal life. Taranis will be displeased. No one notices him these days.

The next day, Jack goes to the library during lunch, wanting a quiet atmosphere to work. He hasn't spent much time with other people this year. Once Felix left, Jack felt no reason to talk to the people who had been in Felix's friend group. He always felt a bit like an outsider with them. Jack knows it's probably a mixture of imposter syndrome and invisible audience beliefs, but he doesn't care. Existing alone is okay. It's peaceful.

"Did you see that video?" a guy says to the girl he's sitting next to. He's got a smile on his face, excited to share and laugh at it with her. The girl furrows her brows, purses her lips thoughtfully, then shakes her head. The guy leans over and lets it play. In the quiet library, Jack can hear the soft audio. Audible snickers, a firm, familiar voice, and rapid, sharp breathing.

"He literally cried and freaked out over the lights turning off," the guy laughs. The girl giggles and takes the phone, reading some of the comments.

"The freshmen get weirder and weirder, I swear," she laughs softly, watching it replay. Jack frowns, confused. He should ask someone later what video they're talking about. The teen makes a mental note and refocuses on his work. Once lunch ends, he heads to his next class, plopping down next to his desk partner.

"Hey, Bob, everyone's been talking about this video recently, what are they going on about?" Jack asks his friend. Bob frowns and digs out his phone with a sigh, adjusting his glasses and unlocking it. He surfs through the many apps on his phone before tapping on Snapchat. The app loads and the very first thing on the screen is a dark video with the same audio from lunch. A box across the bottom of the video reads, "Damn, kids still out here crying over the dark."

The camera guy zooms in, laughing and muttering a quiet "look at this dude," in a teasing way. The zoom in and refocusing the camera reveals Mark, tears streaming down his face, hyperventilating and shaking intensely.

Jack feels his blood run cold. Mark, poor Mark. Fuck, what happened? Why is he crying and freaking out like that? Jack hasn't seen Mark since summer, but shit, did things really get this bad? Where they always this bad? That's the second time he's seen Mark have a panic attack. Jack watches as Ethan manages to calm Mark. Still, there's a scary moment where Mark sways a bit, eyelids fluttering as he almost shuts down. Luckily, Ethan gets Mark to focus, and the teen regains control. The video ends and immediately begins replaying. Bob hurriedly turns it off, a frown on his face.

"It's pretty fucked up. Mark is weird, but he doesn't deserve anything like that," Bob says seriously. Jack nods, staring down at the table sadly.

"You alright?" Bob asks, looking at Jack worriedly. Jack seems a little worse for wear all of a sudden. He looks morose and tense, breaths tight and eyes wide. Jack's hands curl into fists, and he chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm fine, it's just… really cruel," Jack murmurs, rubbing his eyes and shaking himself from his reverie. He decides to never bring any of Mark's panic attacks up in conversation with Mark. The teen has never mentioned them, the few times Jack has hung out with him, and Jack knows if Mark doesn't want to share it, Jack shouldn't infringe. Fuck, what is he even thinking about? Mark is not his friend. They've hung out twice. That's not a friendship, that's barely acquaintances. Jack shouldn't care this much about Mark.

Yet, it hurts. It hurts to see Mark in so much pain and see people making fun of him for something he has trouble controlling. He looks so lonely, even with Ethan holding onto him so tight. Jack turns his attention to the warmup, ending the discussion with Bob, but his mind is elsewhere. He needs to at least talk to Amy. If there's anything he can do for Mark, he will. Everything happening to the teen is wrong. Jack will help, even if it's just sitting with the guy at lunch or something. This is messed up, and something needs to be done about it. Fuck, people are so stupid.


	33. Chapter Thirty Three

The bell blares out, and soon, the halls echo with the noise of students flooding out from classes onto the dirty tiles, chattering and laughing. The masses pour through the exits as doors burst open, and they stream forth into hot, Texas autumn air. The crowd almost collectively scowls, rolling up sleeves and flapping folders at their faces for airflow. The sun beats down on the kids as they crowd around the bus charts, a few jogging along to and from their athletic practices. Ethan looks down from the upstairs hallway he and Amy currently occupy. From his lofty view, the inefficient massing around the charts is a clog in a pipe, stopping the steady stream and producing but a mere trickle past it. He turns back to Amy and plops down beside her with a groan.

“Don’t you have to go to Lola’s?”

“The casting list is important,” Amy replies.

“More important than the family business?”

“Opportunities are rare things, Ethan. When one comes along, it’s best to snatch it up and cherish it,” Amy hums, leaning back.

“Someone could’ve just texted you, or I could’ve told you.”

“It’s best if I’m here,” Amy retorts with a flap of her free hand. The other digs in her bag and pulls out her phone, using it to check her eyeliner. She’d bought some the day she decided it was time to let go of Mark. The girl regards it as a consolatory gift for the burial of a friendship. After all, Mark is still acting like an ass. She hastily looks over her makeup and clings to her phone in her lap, watching the electronic clock with anticipation. It’s akin to a pigeon on an outdoor restaurant ledge, waiting for the opportune moment to swoop down and seize a meal. Other students mill about the pair, aimless and circling, all from the genus of birds of prey, patiently waiting to strike.

As the clock strikes five-after, Amy stands and hastens to the front, swooping upon her feast. The others crowd around as the drama teacher steps out and tapes the slip of paper to the wall beside her door before stepping back in. Amy holds her ground against the surge of fellow students, eyes shredding into the paper’s words as they scramble down the list. She breaks into a grin and squeals, dipping away from the kids and returning to Ethan, wrapping him in a vice-like hug. Ethan groans and hugs her back, stumbling a bit with the intensity of the attack.

“Good news?”

“I got the one I wanted! I’m one of the leads!” she exclaims, pulling away to whirl about, a ballerina of exuberance and relief. She giggles and stumbles to the side, bumping against the wall. Perhaps less of a ballerina and more of a tipsy faerie- high on the pure elation.

“Hey, that’s great!” Ethan praises as he shoulders both of their bags, already beginning to walk towards the stairs to exit the building. Amy skips along beside him, hair flouncing. Her happiness is infectious, saturating Ethan in bright rays of jubilation as they walk to the cafe. Well, Amy practically waltzes, but Ethan walks. Soon, both are chattering in an animated fashion, discussing costuming and the character with the avidness of young children playing dress-up.

They reach the business in a timely fashion, and Ethan greets Jack as they step inside. The teen smiles nervously, continuing to hastily down a table. The mop and bucket are by his side, and the floor around him is wet and shiny. Amy frowns and has a quick talk with him before giving him a smile and heading back. After slipping on her hat and apron, she’s out front again, ready to happily serve polite customers and endure any bratty patrons.

“What was that about?” Ethan asks.

“A customer spilled their drink a few minutes ago. Jack’s cleaning it up. I’m impressed. I hadn’t told him anything about mopping yet, or even where it was,” she says with a smile. Amy makes a note of it, ensuring that the shattered cup is still accounted for, even in it’s broken state. Ethan nods before perking up as a snippet of information pops into the forefront of his mind.

“Oh! I’m entering the school art competition. I have this piece,” Ethan says, pulling out the tablet he edits his photos on. Amy stares at the picture, taking in all the detail.

“That’s from middle school,” she says.

Ethan nods. The silence stretches for a moment, sopping wet with heavy emotions that drip and pool messily over the floor. Both try to ignore the spillage.

“You captured his pain perfectly,” Amy murmurs after a moment before pulling away. The tense, stretching silence snaps, despondency splashing out in all directions, fat droplets landing on both of them. Their lips fall to thin lines, trying to avoid it. As they recover, Jack walks over with a bright, cheery smile on his face. However, it recedes as he leans forward against the counter, replaced with a serious, dark tone.

“Ethan, I’m glad you’re here too,” he says quietly. Amy and Ethan share a confused glance, minds grabbing at straws to snatch for whatever it may be that Jack needs both of them for. The straws are short.

“Mark had that really bad… thing? Um, and everyone’s making fun of him. What happened?” Jack asks, not quite sure to label whatever had happened. Amy looks down, and Ethan pulls his tablet close to his chest, hiding the image.

“Mark had a panic attack. He… gets them every once in a while,” Ethan says, fingers rapping at the metal backing of his device. Amy nods in agreement, and they share a glance. Mark made them swear they would never tell anyone about his diagnosis when he first explained it. The pair had tried to argue that telling people would help them understand, but Mark refused. He was scared.

He is still scared.

“Isn’t there anything he can do about it?” Jack asks, the teen’s genuine concern stabbing deep Ethan and Amy. It shocks them, emotions bubbling in their throats, and threatening to spill as they are gutted by the cutting edge of Jack’s worry. Guilt drips from Amy’s wound, steady and heavy. Uncertainty seeps from Ethan’s, dribbling and smearing slowly, tentatively.

“Yeah, um, he works on it,” Amy says with a nod, fixing her hair back properly and turning to wash her hands. Jack frowns but nods and continues his work. Ethan bites his lip, seeing the confusion and hesitation in Jack’s gaze. The blue-eyed brunet sniffs out the hesitancy in their answers as easily as a bloodhound to their dripping wounds. Ethan packs up his tablet and shoulders his bag, hurriedly leaving. Jack watches him go, and Ethan can’t help but feel like every step leaves a footprint of pain behind him, a trail for all to see of his misgivings.

Amy washes her hands clean of sin. The water runs over her hands, soap wicking away with each stream of crystal clear liquid. Water drips into the sink, streaming down her fingers and knuckles, and the guilt trickles from her skin, oozing out and tainting the water. Amy scrubs harder, biting her lip. After a moment, she shakes off her hands, droplets splattering before she pats them dry. Amy takes a deep breath and turns around, guilt cleansed from her system as she smiles at the incoming customer.


	34. Chapter Thirty Four

The quiet chatter of the few other students in the library slides into a blur. Jack stares down at his homework, focusing on the paper before him. The computer is open to an empty tab, a few others stacked behind it from earlier work and emails. There’s a rustle of clothing behind him, and soft footsteps on the carpet as someone walks down an aisle, but Jack ignores it. He taps his pen against the edge of the table. The words blur into a black, Times New Roman fog, and he yawns. His pen droops in his hand as the teen falls into the stupor of exhaustion. Working and keeping up his grades has been harder than he predicted. A couple of weeks had passed without any major hitch, but the long hours are starting to catch up. He consistently found himself staring down at pages without the faintest sense of coherence. The words stretch across the page like trains of ants, irritating his eyes and teasing his mind with invisible trails.

A little ding from the computer pierces through the fog, and Jack jerks up, dropping his pen in the process. After some muttering, bending, and scrabbling on the floor, he pulls himself up again, clicks on the offending tab, and accesses the latest email. It’s a notification from the online grades program the school uses.

“Alert. Your child’s grade has fallen below a ninety in…”

“What?” Jack murmurs to himself, reading over it several times before checking the other website’s actual grades. Shit. He’d failed the test last week. Jack winces slightly and hurriedly gathers his belongings, stuffing them into his bag with the wind of anxiety blowing in his sails. The teen rushes through the halls, ending up at his teacher’s room. He peeks inside, brows furrowed with worry.

“Excuse me? Mr. Wooley?”

“Yeah, Jack?” the teacher asks from his desk, leaning back and looking away from whatever he had been working on. Most likely, it’s an email response to some angry parents.

“C-can I go over the test from last week?” he asks, stepping into the room with measured, quick, tentative steps, like a small bird picking through shallow water in search of a meal.

“Sure thing. I was surprised by yours, actually. Normally, you’re on top of things. What happened?” Mr. Wooley replies as he stands and makes his way to the filing cabinet, where he stores all the old assignments.

“O-oh, um, I started a new job about a month ago, and things have been really crazy since then,” Jack replied, breaths coming too sharp to be normal. His jaw is tense, and his eyes sting. Oh God, he is not going to cry over this. He is not going to shed a tear over a test. Guilt, regret, and fear crash over him in violent waves, and he’s struggling to stay upright.

“Ah, I see. Well, work on getting some balance. You might need to talk about changing your hours if this becomes a regular occurrence,” the man says with a nod. He’s a bit surprised to hear that Jack has a job. Most freshmen don’t go job hunting. Typically, that’s what juniors and seniors do.

“Right. I’m sorry,” Jack apologized, rubbing his face and taking a deep breath. He swallows, and the emotions hurt, pushing down his throat and chafing the dry epithelium along the way.

“It’s no problem. Everyone goes through ups and downs,” Mr. Wooley reassures with a gentle smile, pulling out the test and turning back to Jack. “Here’s the key, and here’s your test. I marked which ones you missed. Please write down why you missed each one and explain why the correct answer is right in two to three sentences,” he adds, handing two packets of paper to Jack. The teen nods and avoids eye contact as he hastily takes the documents and hurries to his seat towards the back. When he gets there, he pauses.

Mark is in the corner, staring down at the carpet, shifting nervously. His eyes are red, and there’s a few shiny tracks down his face. Jack moves to sit down in his seat, just a few feet from Mark. Both of them avoid eye contact, and Jack begins working on his test. The only sounds in the room are Mr. Wooley’s typing and the scribbling of Jack’s pen on paper. He finishes up just as the bell rings and hastily tears off a piece of paper from the bottom of his test. Jack scribbles something down and drops it beside him as he stands and turns the tests into Mr. Wooley. After a quick “thanks”, he hurries out and onward to his next class.

On the way to work, he cries. The stress is getting to him. Jack doesn’t know what his parents are going to say about his grades. They’re obviously going to be disappointed and angry. He wipes away tears with his hoodie sleeve as they drip down his face, a slow but steady stream. Jack wishes he had someone to talk to. Emailing Felix can only do so much. Birthday congratulations from thousands of miles away only mean so much on the big day.

He gets to Lola’s and puts on his hat and apron, beginning to wipe down tables and wash dishes. Amy’s dad is at the register, staring at the buttons with his usual empty expression. Her dad never does dishes or cleans. He barely manages to work the register these days. Luckily, Lola’s isn’t very busy during school hours, but Jack has come to work every day to see dishes piled high in the sink and messy tables. Soon after, Amy shows up, and her dad leaves, quiet and gaunt. He is a specter in a breathing body, doing the bare minimum to survive; he haunts the living with an empty gaze and is haunted by memories of someone he cannot bring back.

As the two teens work, Amy tells Jack about her theatre class. Apparently, in about a month, there’s going to be a big round of plays, and she’ll have to take off work because she’s one of the leads. Therefore, Jack will be left to run the shop. Jack nods and accepts it, making a note of it in his little journal.

Jack trudges home after work, falling onto the couch and curling up. He can hear his siblings giggling and laughing in one of the bedrooms. They’re up past their bedtime, and Jack needs to go put them to bed. First, he needs a moment. The teen buries his face into his knees and takes a few deep breaths in an attempt to ground himself as the emotions well up. Each breath pushes back the waves like the ebb and flow of a tide, but the feelings continue to swell and rise towards high-tide.

He failed a test today.

No one told him happy birthday except for Felix.

He’s exhausted.

Jack trudges to the kitchen and opens the fridge to scrape up some sort of dinner, but he pauses when he sees a small plate with a bowl placed upside down on it. There’s a little note on it.

“Thank you for being an awesome big brother!” is written in a messy array of fonts, ranging from child’s blocky crayon letters to a basic scrawl of someone who has yet to develop a set writing style. Jack pulls off the note, looking on the back to see his siblings signatures, in their variety of fonts. Jack bites his lip and reaches forward with hands shaking like leaves in the wind. He pulls off the bowl and finds a chocolate cupcake, iced and decorated with a rainbow of sprinkles. Tears well up in the teen’s eyes as Jack picks it up and makes his way through the apartment to his younger brother’s room, where all the ruckus is coming from. After hurriedly wiping away the first bout of tears, he opens the door and steps inside.

“Happy birthday, Sean!” all the kids say loud and happy. Sean laughs, and a fresh wave of tears leak from the corners of his eyes.

“Thanks, guys,” he manages before choking on his emotions. He sits down with his siblings as they chatter away, showing him drawings and little cards they all made for him. Jack eats his cupcake, giving them all bits of it as well. This is why he’s working. This is why he’s studying. This is why he’s losing sleep. His younger siblings deserve the best, and Jack will do anything it takes to make that possible.


	35. Chapter Thirty Five

"Hey, can't make it today, art teacher wants to talk to me about something, also I'll only be able to make it on Fridays after this week bc working on the yearbook and have to use school editing software and only available time is during lunch," Ethan texts Mark in his typical rambling style, a flood of words that barely forms a coherent statement. Mark picks it up as he eats his sandwich in the corner, as usual. He reads it a few times, feeling a sinking weight in his gut. The entire world tilts and sags for a moment, the grey tones growing stronger.

Of course, this would happen. Ethan is getting sick of dealing with his miserable self, and he's trying to get away from Mark. No one cares about him. He's just the kid that acts weird and antisocial. It's best not to associate with him if one wants a social life of any sort. Mark turns his phone off, only for the thing to buzz a few minutes later, while he's throwing away his trash. It vibrates in his pocket, and he flinches like it is a bee in his ear.

"OMG! I got first place in the art competition with my photography!" Ethan texts into the group chat with Mark and Amy. It's rapidly followed up by, "Can you guys make the district exhibition?"

Mark reads it over, deliberating on the message like a binding contract. Ethan's just acting. He doesn't actually want Mark to come. This is just a ploy to save face. Mark understands. Why would he want Mark there? Spending time with someone who drags along like a stage procession- for all to see and gawk at, but miserable in the end. That is not a fun time by anyone's standards. Mark will probably ruin his chances by freaking out or something, then no one would vote for Ethan's. His therapist keeps telling him that Ethan and Amy are just getting busier because that's what happens in high school. Why would his therapist tell him the truth? Therapy is supposed to make people feel better. If the truth hurts, why would he acknowledge it? So, Mark disagrees with him. Mark isn't getting any busier. He has slightly more homework, but that's it. His life is as dreary as ever, snowed in and surrounded by aimless drifts.

"Can't," is his simple reply. It's quickly followed up with a text from Amy.

"I have one of my plays on that day, sorry bud."

"Okay," comes the lack-luster reply from Ethan. Mark doubts he even cares about Mark, he's probably only bummed about Amy. Those two were friends before Mark joined the group. They only added him in because he's a pity case.

Mark curls up further in the corner, burying his face into his knees and beginning to cry. He cries with a quietness that leaves no tremor in the air, no sound waves of sobs to ring out and alert others. Mr. Wooley doesn't hear him, busy typing on his computer. Mr. Wooley doesn’t seem him, obstructed by the thick forest of desks and chairs. By now, they're used to each other. They're used to sitting in silence during lunch. The familiar clack of keyboard keys drones on and on, an endless pool of questions and concerns from doting parents. Mark doesn't bother Mr. Wooley, and Mr. Wooley doesn't bother Mark. Today, the ritual is broken.

Someone knocks on the door. It's tentative, shaky. The uncertainty of it whispers through the wood and quietly alerts them that someone has dared to break the routine.

"Excuse me? Mr. Wooley?"

"Yeah, Jack?" the teacher replies, smiling. Mark tenses. He recognizes that voice. He recognizes that name. The teen tries to stop crying, wiping his face on the jean fabric over his knees. His fingers at a loose string, fussing over it like a bird over a nest- fixated on it to a fault.

"C-can I go over the test from last week?" Jack asks. His voice is higher than usual. There's a tightness to it, akin to a less exaggerated version of wheezing out air through a strangled, choked trachea. Perhaps he's choking himself internally, holding back words or cries of emotion.

"Sure thing. I was surprised by yours, actually. Normally, you're on top of things. What happened?" Mr. Wooley says as he stands and makes his way to the filing cabinet. Mark watches his feet through the forest of desk and chair legs, listens to the jangle of keys, the click of the lock, the loud roll of pulling metal drawers forward.

"O-oh, um, I started a new job about a month ago, and things have been really crazy since then," Jack answers. Mark frowns. Jack sounds like he's about to cry. There's a tremor in his voice indicative of attempting, and failing, in controlling his emotions. Mark shivers as the feeling of his own throat constricting rises up, a familiar sensation of miserable failure. The dry swallow as his eyes burn, the burning of a tight jaw, the soreness of bitten lips.

"Ah, I see. Well, work on getting some balance. You might need to talk about changing your hours if this becomes a regular occurrence," Mr. Wooley says, graciously ignoring Jack's high-pitched tone.

"Right. I'm sorry," Jack apologizes, rubbing his face and taking a deep breath. Mark watches the dilapidated tennis shoes shift his weight from foot to foot. One turns in and nudges at the other with nervous sensitivity.

"It's no problem. Everyone goes through ups and downs," Mr. Wooley says gently as he turns to Jack. Through the jungle of chairs, the dress shoes turn, confident and precise, toward those old shoes. They are fraying at the seams and standing so delicately as if on a minefield. The anxiety in those turning, fidgeting feet is evident.

"Here's the key, and here's your test. I marked which ones you missed. Please write down why you missed each one and explain why the correct answer is right in two to three sentences," the teacher adds, handing two packets of paper to Jack. Mark tenses, watching the flighty steps of the tennis shoes slink closer to Mr. Wooley, then step away. They then turn direction, padding along morosely, before freezing. Mark ducks his gaze to the carpet, fidgeting and fussing with that loose thread in his jeans like a dog at fleas as those old shoes stand before him.

After a moment of silence, Jack sits down a few feet away. Mark closes his eyes, calm flooding about him as Jack stays quiet. Pen scribbling over paper fills the air, and Mark gets lost in the quiet noise. Relief washes over him in gentle waves that caress the shoreline of his mind. 

All too soon, the bell rings. Mark flinches at the sudden noise and flinches again as a tiny piece of paper flutters to rest in his lap. Delicate and bird-like, it lands perches on the fabric of his jeans, caught in the fraying nest Mark has teased to fruition. The teen picks up the paper with shaking hands, hearing a soft "thanks" from Jack to Mr. Wooley before Jack is gone. Mark turns it to the other side and reads the slip of paper with furrowed brows.

"I'm here if you ever want to talk," is scribbled in hasty handwriting, followed by an email address. Mark bites his lip and stands, pocketing the paper as he stares at the door Jack just left through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got sick of playing catch up between this platform and the other platforms, so I just published them all today to get every platform even lol.


	36. Chapter Thirty Six

A couple of days have passed since Jack failed his test. It's Sunday, so he and his parents are all off work. Jack curls up on his couch, opens his textbook, and begins to take notes while reading. He only gets a couple minutes in before there's a knock from the entryway. Jack sighs and looks up, seeing both of his parents standing at the entrances to the living room. Anxiety curls around him, turning the soft blanket hard and the warmth surrounding him cold.

"Happy birthday, Sean," Shannon says, smiling and stepping closer to sit on the couch's unoccupied end. Connor follows, setting a box wrapped in butcher paper beside Sean before leaning and sitting down on the arm of the sofa beside his wife. Sean slowly closes his book and sets everything aside. The anxiety drops a slight amount, but confusion punctuates the blanket with a hesitancy that is atypical of him. He looks at his parents with uncertainty before tentatively picking up the box. It's surprisingly heavy. Perhaps a big book or something of the sort?

"Is this my present?" he asks in a soft voice like a whisper of wind brushing over a quiet morning, unsure and tentative to disturb the peace. During the week, Sean doesn't see his parents much, so they celebrate his birthday today. They're cooking up roast beef, with potatoes, and carrots, and corn, and green beans, and gravy. The smell fills the whole apartment as the beef slow cooks through the afternoon.

"Yes. Now that you're in high school, we know keeping up with everything is getting harder. These days, there's so much more work. Your Papa and I certainly weren't this busy with school when we were your age," Shannon answers, giving her son a gentle, loving smile. The younger children slowly peek into the room before Susan breaks the seal and toddles to her parents. Connor turns, smiling at the toddler and scooping her up to rest in his lap before looking back at Sean.

"Hopefully, this will make your life a lot easier. We saw that you failed that test recently, and we wanted to rectify that. We aren't mad at you, kiddo. Balancing work and school is very hard, and you did great for several weeks," Connor says with a smile to his eldest son that speaks of understanding and affection. Sean nods, brows furrowing as he turns his attention to the package.

The butcher paper crinkles under his hands, and he smooths over the surface, feeling the shape. His fingers catch on the twine tied around and into a bow. Sean nimbly unties the cord and pulls it off. It slides from the paper with a soft brush, and he sets it aside with reverent anticipation, eyes fixated on the package. The teenager untucks the butcher paper and takes a deep breath, pulling it off to reveal a white box with the Google logo and a picture of a Chromebook. Sean beams, hugging the box close and looking up at his parents as tears well up in his eyes.

"You got me a laptop?" he exclaims in question, heartbeat rising as tears begin to run down his face. Both his parents are smiling happily and nodding. Sean sets the box aside and moves to the other side of the couch, throwing himself into his mother's arms and hugging her tightly.

"What type is it?" Simon asks from the entryway, peering at the box. Connor chuckles and bounces Susan a couple of times in his lap, so the toddler giggles and laughs.

"A Chromebook. They have the best battery lives and are extremely durable. It should last for all of high school," Connor answers as Jack shifts to hug his dad next, being careful of baby Susan in his lap.

"Thank you, Papa. Thank you, Mama," Jack sniffles, rubbing away the tears in his eyes. He laughs dryly and runs a hand through his tousled hair, "I thought you guys were gonna be mad about the test," he admits, breathless from shock. Connor chuckles and ruffles the teen's hair further.

"We get onto you for plenty, son. We know you try at school, and so long as you're doing your damn best, we won't be mad," he reassures. Sean nods and fights away his father's hand, wiping away a few more tears and going back to the box. He picks it up with the delicacy of fine china and sits down, curling up to read over absolutely everything. His fingers follow the wording printed on the side of the box, and he murmurs every word to himself. Jack traces over the Google logo and presses a palm over the picture of the computer.

"Let me know if you need any help setting it up, I'm going to go check on your dinner. We love you, Sean," Shannon says, pressing a kiss to her son's temple, fixing his messy hair, and standing. She heads to the kitchen, and the sounds of metal pots and stirring soon follow. Simon, Alli, and Malcolm crowd around Sean, peeking at the box. Connor takes Susan to the kitchen, following after his wife. The rest of the evening is filled with chatter and laughter. They spend the first time on the laptop watching YouTube videos and playing silly online games.

"Dinner!" Connor calls a few hours later as he pulls out plates. Sean turns off the laptop and carefully plugs it in to charge, following his siblings into the kitchen. The family navigates the crowded space with ease, chattering as they fill up plates.

"Oi, Alli, no cake yet!" Sean laughs, catching his little sister before she can dip a hungry finger into the white frosting. He gently pulls her away and guides her to the table to help her sit down. Sean helps get everyone's plates ready and their proper drinks before sitting down at the head of the table. His father sits at the other head. Sean's plate is heaped with copious portions of everything, gravy and potatoes almost dripping onto the table. It isn't often that the family gets so much food, and since it's his birthday celebration, he gets the most generous servings.

After dinner and cleanup, they pull out the cake. The family sings happy birthday in a myriad of poor pitches and awful timing that sends Sean into a fit of laughter. He manages to blow out the candles through his giggles, but a trick candle relights, and he has to hurriedly blow it out. He takes the corner piece, munching on it happily as his family chatters away. All too soon, it's bedtime for the little ones and study time for Sean. His parents stop him from helping clean up dessert, so the teenager ambles to the living room and plops down, beginning to type up his notes from the textbook.

The apartment is quiet as Sean works late into the night. He sneaks another piece of cake and munches on it around midnight, watching a YouTube video and checking his email. Nothing from Mark, but that's alright. Jack didn't expect it to work. Mark probably doesn't want to share things with someone who is essentially a stranger. Jack goes to bed with his mind full of thoughts about building a friendship with Mark and a belly full of cake.


	37. Chapter Thirty Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Attempted suicide, may be triggering for some folks.

Mark gets to his sixth period, tense and frazzled. His mind feels like a hive of bees being smoked out. It’s been a few days since Jack gave him that piece of paper, and Mark’s still deliberating. His therapist takes more notes these days, even though Mark talks less and less. Mr. Josh would tell him that he should reach out to Jack. Mark spent the last session organizing the Legos into colors and putting them in their own little boxes, rather than their usual pile of haphazard disarray. Mark doesn’t play with the Legos during sessions anymore. However, he still fusses with them, breaking pieces apart, pushing others together. Whatever felt right.

It’s a substitute today, so most kids pull out their phones and slouch back, ignoring the busy work the teacher assigned. Mark starts on it, headphones snug over his ears, and playing relaxing, uncomplicated music.

Someone knocks on his desk. Mark looks up with furrowed brows to see a few kids have crowded around his space. The teen slowly takes off his headphones but goes back to looking down at the paper on his desk. He doesn’t like how many people are looking at him.

“Hey, do you remember when you had that freakout during the storm?” A girl asks. Mark doesn’t bother with names that often since he rarely talks. The teen nods, beginning to tug at his pen and click it.

“Why did you?” A boy follows up. Mark grimaces and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk about that. He doesn’t want to talk.

“Dude, he asked you a question,” another guy says. Mark reaches up and rubs over his ear a few times, grimacing. He shakes his head again, looking up at the ceiling instead of at them.

“You won’t even look at us? Do you think you are better than us or something?” the girl asks, nose wrinkling. Mark winces and lifts his hands, shaking them and his head. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, ducking his head to stare back down at the desk. Their gazes make him feel weird. His skin is too tight, prickly feelings filling every inch exposed to them.

“We know you aren’t mute. You talk. Why don’t you talk now?” One of the boy’s questions sharply. Mark closes his hand into a fist and bites at his knuckles, rocking his legs side to side and fidgeting in his seat. He stares down at the crack between desks. Perhaps he can find a way to answer their questions on the floor.

“Creep,” someone mutters, and the others nod, slowly moving away. They’re disappointed and annoyed with him, that’s for sure. Mark gathers his stuff up, shoving it into his backpack, lackadaisically, without order. Typically, he’s quite meticulous about it. Normally, everything has to be just right. Mark shoulders his bag and goes to the substitute.

“C-can I go t-to the b-bathroom?” He asks, voice cracking and shaky from disuse. These days, he doesn’t talk. He doesn’t need to. This is the first time he’s spoken since he saw his therapist several days ago.

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” the old woman says, smiling with gentle concern at the boy. She grabs a sticky note and writes him a pass. Mark takes it and tries to say thank you, but no sound comes out. His lips move, and she nods, looking at him with sympathy- poor kid. Mark doesn’t see the look, staring down at his shoes. After a moment, he turns and hurries out, fist accidentally crushing the note in his hand. He’s dizzy, bees buzzing in his mind, exhausted, and choked on foggy smoke. Something breaks, and the bees swarm out. He snaps. His mind feels so empty now.

He turns and looks around, seeing the area is empty. Mark steps out the side exit and walks off, hands in his pockets, and head low. He walks quickly, trying to stop the way his hands shake. His whole body feels that way, trembling and weak. Why did he ever think people cared? Nobody cares. They all think he’s a freak that should be in some mental hospital. Ethan and Amy put up with his shit because they felt sympathy. They just felt sorry for him. Mark didn’t talk much, but they spent time with him anyway because they felt bad. The poor kid with weird movements and weird talking. Why did he think they cared? Tears well up in his eyes as he nears the house, and they jostle down his cheeks with each rushed step. Everything is so clear. He knows what he needs to do.

Mark slips inside and tosses his bags to the side in the entryway, continuing onward. He’s so sick of this, so sick of life, so sick of being treated differently. Mark goes to the master bedroom and digs under the bed, pulling out the small pistol his mother keeps there for safety. He clutches it close, shaky hands checking to make sure it’s loaded. Mark cries quietly as he turns, bringing the gun with him through the house. The teen goes to the kitchen, ripping a piece of paper from his mom’s notebook. The boy begins to write.

He’s so tired. Everything hurts. He’s fought for so long, but he just feels so alone these days, and no one actually cares. It’s his fault that his family’s broken, and it’s his fault his friends don’t hang out with him. He’s a burden on his friends. He’s a burden on his family. He’s the reason Tom left. He hears how his parents talk about him. He hears how his mom cries and how his dad goes quiet. He knows he stresses them out. Everything hurts. He’s so sick of it. He can’t go on. He’s a burden to everyone. No one actually cares. They’ll be better off without him.

Mark cries as he writes, tears dripping onto the paper and smudging the ink some, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t notice. Mark takes the paper and the gun, opening the back door and stepping into the backyard. He leaves the door open, not seeing or caring. He sets the paper down on the table on their patio and puts a rock on top so it won’t fly away. Mark moves one of the metal chairs out into the grass and sits down, staring at the gun in his hands. He doesn’t want to burden anyone anymore. Mark doesn’t want to be the person people are scared of. He doesn’t want to get those shallow, sympathy points. At least this will make cleanup easy for his family. Out in the middle of the yard, on a metal chair. No upholstery to replace, no carpet to destain. Just hose it down, and it never happened. Then, they’ll never have to deal with him again. They can be happy again. Mark sobs, feeling the pain of so many people around him. He ruins everything around him. He hurts everyone who tries to reach for him.

The thought never occurs to him that people feel pain for him, not because of him.

Mark lifts the gun to his mouth, feeling the cold metal on his tongue. He swallows, tasting salty tears and metallic tang. Mark clicks the safety off. Tears stream down his face, and he sobs one last time. He won’t burden anyone anymore.


	38. Chapter Thirty Eight

Jack gets to Lola's before Amy today, having slipped out of class a few minutes early when the teacher was looking away. It'd been a dull day, full of busy-work. He hums as he begins to clean up a table. This soft tune drifts through the air delicately, fluttering about his head, a hummingbird buzzing for nectar. Amy comes in a couple of minutes later, Ethan hot on her heels. Both look flustered, brows furrowed, Ethan's breaths coming faster than usual.

"He wasn't in seventh period, Amy, but he was at school the rest of the day, I saw him walk past my classroom to the stairwell exit during the sixth period," Ethan says. His voice rushes over itself with anxiety, speeding faster and faster like a sprint down a mountain. His mind follows along, panicking with fear for his friend.

Jack walks over, tucking the cleaning towel back into his apron, and setting the spray bottle to the side. Amy turns and gives him a faint smile and waves before turning back to Ethan. They both lean away from Jack, and it's evident that he is not wanted in the conversation. Jack does his best not to interrupt, so he begins fiddling with the register, making a note of what Amy's dad brought in like she usually does. Today, she's clearly preoccupied with other things, and Jack wants to learn how to do it. It's as good of a time as any.

"He's never skipped class before," Amy mutters softly, leaning over the counter as she talks to Ethan. They're both tense, shoulders tight, and bodies restless.

"What do we do? We know he's at his house right now, where else would he be?" Ethan asks. Jack finishes his accounting job and serves a customer, preparing their coffee and heating up their muffin. He carefully bags it and hands the girl her drink and food, smiling softly. Once Jack's free again, he dials back into the conversation, cleaning down the counter nearby. Jack's already cleaned it, but he wants to listen in. After all, the teen has a suspicion about who they're talking about.

"You should go check on him. He's clearly not stable," Amy murmurs, meeting Ethan's gaze with fervent concern. The teen nods back, standing up straight and running his hands through his hair. The agitation is evident in the tight way he breathes, each inhale terse, and each exhale rushed.

"Fuck," the teen curses under his breath, gathering up his bag and turning. Ethan sprints out and down the street, phone in hand. Mark has expressed suicidal thoughts to Ethan and Amy before. Usually, Ethan keeps track of him, per request from Mark's mother. Mark didn't know that. Generally, Ethan is good at it. He isn't overbearing, and Mark's never been suspicious of him before. Yet, this time, Mark skipped class. Ethan couldn't track him.

Jack wants to ask what that whole conversation was all about, but the typical rush of students begins to file in, chattering away. Loud talk and laughter fill the coffee shop as Amy and Jack rush about, taking and filling orders as fast as possible. An hour later, things are finally calmed down, and the pair are cleaning up. The students who stayed for tutoring have come and gone, and it's peaceful again. Amy and Jack lean against the counter, chatting softly with one another as they watch the door.

"So, what was that all about. You know, with Ethan?" Jack inquires. He tentatively taps a pen against the notebook he has out and watches Amy like a deer in the woods. His head is up and alert, listening, and waiting for any sign of aggression from a predator.

"Nothing really," she hums in a nonchalant manner, standing and pulling away from Jack. She turns her back and begins to clean up the latte station. When one is hurriedly preparing several drinks in a row, all with overly specific specifications, droplets of coffee and cream tend to go absolutely everywhere. Jack frowns, furrowing his brows and pursing his lips. He turns to lean back on the counter, crossing his arms as he watches Amy. Fine. If she was going to be evasive, he was going to be persistent.

"You both seemed incredibly worried, I disagree," he demurs, sharply watching her.

"It's private," Amy answers, voice firm as she turns to glare at Jack. Her gaze pierces into his- rock crashing against stone.

"Was it about Mark?" Jack prompts, going off his hunch. Amy scowls and turns back to her work, irritation scratching over her skin that Jack is still trying to talk about it.

"Go clean the tables, Jack," she orders, evading the conversation. Jack rolls his eyes, grabbing the spray and pulling out his towel. Pulling her boss status over him during a serious topic is impossibly vexing. Jack angrily scrubs at a particularly rough stain, muttering soft curses at Amy that slip from his lips but never reach his ears. They die in the few inches between the two, a low grumble of muffled anger that fizzles out before ever coming to fruition. After a few minutes, he finishes his task, stomping back behind the counter and tossing the dirty towel in the bin, grabbing a new one.

"I'm done," he announces snappishly. Amy rolls her eyes with annoyance at his attitude.

"I said it's private," she reminds, voice sharp and firm.

"If it's about Mark, I want to know. He's my friend too," Jack persists. Well, that may be stretching the truth a bit. He's only talked to Mark twice, but hey, Mark has his email address. Amy groans and rubs her face.

"If he hasn't told you himself, I'm not going to tell you. All I'll say is that he's not okay," Amy finally yields. Even though it's hardly any useful information, it's better than nothing. Jack frowns, tilting his head to the side. Her answer only left him with more questions.

"Why isn't he okay?"

"I already said all I'm going to say. It's his choice if he tells you more," Amy replies, turning away and giving Jack the cold shoulder. The conversation ends there, its golden lifeline cut off by Amy, not one of the Fates, but it certainly feels that way to Jack. Cut off, once again, from learning about this group of friends. There's so much to this trio that's shrouded from him. Slowly, the curtain peels back, but only to reveal hints of new things. Never does he obtain tangible, valuable information. It's always teasing him, shining brightly only a few steps away, but the light goes out just as he reaches to grab it.

Jack goes back to cleaning, mopping up the floor, and collecting small bits of trash as he runs over the information he's obtained today. Mark is not stable right now. Mark skipped the seventh period. Mark has never ditched class before. Today, Mark skipped. Today, Mark stormed out, flustered and frustrated. This only furthers his resolve to help the dark-haired teenager.

Jack huffs quietly to himself. If only he had Mark's email or something. Then, he could reach out to him versus waiting for Mark to reach out. Jack knows from experience that stress and depression will kill any desire to do absolutely anything. The chances of Mark coming to him are slim to none.

The teen sighs and puts away the mop once he finishes his task. He serves another customer, pulling on his happy smile. Then, he tugs out his laptop from his backpack. He starts on his homework, but his email sits open. Jack can't help but glance at it every few seconds, watching, waiting, hoping for an email from Mark Fischbach, the boy with the sweet smile and lousy, teasing, tentative eye contact that drives Jack wild.


	39. Chapter Thirty Nine

He can't do it. Mark can't pull the trigger. He's been sitting here with this gun at his lips for eternity, feeling the wind brush his skin, listening to the leaves rustle with each swirl, ever so alive. Perhaps he's waiting for a sign, for some indication he should. He's a fucking coward. He sits, waiting for his finger to slip, waiting for something to startle him into pulling the trigger because he can't do it on his own. He's a coward.

There's the faint sound of his dog, Freddy, barking at the front door, and the doorbell rings. Mark hears it through the open backdoor. He sits there for a moment, deliberating. His finger twitches on the trigger, and he feels it give slightly. Then, he stands and sets down the gun. Tears sit on his cheeks, fresh droplets running over dried streaks as he walks through the house to the front. His legs wobble as he walks, as if on a rocky, unstable surface, rather than smooth hardwood floors. Mark's hands tremble while he unlocks the front door. They slip on the metal doorknob a few times, sweaty and weak, clawing up the edge of the cliff he'd almost tumbled over. He feels as if he's run a marathon, every part of him weighed down and strung up at the same time. Mark opens the door, only to come face to face with a concerned, out of breath, Ethan.

"Holy shit, Mark! Are you alright?" the boy gasps, breathless from sprinting here. At that, Mark snaps, adrenaline from the dreadful hour pumping through him, exhaustion at this never-ending cycle of never being alright, rage at the off-and-on friendship with people around him. He lets out a broken sob, turning his head away, body shaking with emotion.

"Fuck off, Ethan! Stop acting like you care! I know you just feel guilty! I know you're just fucking sympathetic for the fucking loser! I know it! You tried to fix me, and guess what, it never fucking works! I'm not alright and stop acting like you can fix it, you don't actually care!" Mark screams at Ethan, voice cracked and dry from his hour of hell in limbo. Mark slams the door and locks it, breaking down into full sobs as soon as it's closed.

"Mark, I-"

"Go away!" Mark screams, voice raw and stark, scratching, and high. He punches the door, hitting it a few times before leaning against it. Mark lets out a scream that ricochets through the house, piercing and cutting and sinking into the walls, marking his pain permanently. He slowly drops to the ground, sobbing horrendously. Freddy is a few feet away, shifting from paw to paw and whining. The dog isn't good with strangers, and Ethan being here scares him. They got Freddy for Mark as a comfort animal, but the pup is scared right now. Mark holds up his hands, hyperventilating and staring at them. They hurt, burning, and aching and pounding with pain. Blood is on the ripped skin of his knuckles, and the nerves scream in agony from punching the door several times. Relief washes over him in cutting, sharp waves that throb in his hands. He's still alive. Things still hurt.

Ethan stares at the door before pulling out his phone. He steps back slightly and calls Mark's mom. She'd given Amy and Ethan her number long ago. Ethan talks hurriedly with her, telling her Mark skipped class, and he just screamed at Ethan. Immediately, she's on her way. She tells Ethan to stay and listen. She tells Ethan the passcode to the house so he can get it. She tells him to make sure Mark doesn't hurt himself. Ethan hangs up and wipes away his tears, stepping back toward the door.

"M-Mark? Can I come in?" he asks, voice shaky and scared. Mark sobs out an answer, arms reaching toward Freddy. The dog skitters over and crawls between Mark's legs, curling into the boy's chest as Mark hugs him tightly.

"No," he manages, voice dry. He buries his face into Freddy's soft fur, taking deep breaths and petting over the dog. His hands hurt tremendously, but Freddy calms him down. Pain petting over healing.

"Y-your mom told me to c-come in," Ethan asks, hiccuping slightly from his own adrenaline-filled terror.

"Go away," Mark says, letting Freddy lick at his neck and chin as he leans his head back against the door with a thud.

"P-please?"

"Go away, Ethan. I know you don't actually care. You don't have to keep up the act," Mark groans, glaring angrily up along the length of the front door from where he sits. Mark stands and walks away from the door, Freddy scampering along behind him. The teen goes to the back and puts the rock back where it belongs, taking the gun and paper back inside. He makes sure the safety is on and puts the gun in the original spot beneath his mom's bed. 

Mark stands and wanders to the kitchen, turning on the faucet and putting the suicide note under the water. It rapidly soaks through, ink smearing and becoming illegible. Mark crumples it and pulls the softening paper apart until it's one ball of mushy, useless nothing. He dumps it in the trash and turns off the faucet. He turns and grabs the vase from the counter, dropping it onto the ground with no emotion. The shattered glass causes Freddy to yelp, and Mark lets out a puff of air that flutters his hair up before it settles on his forehead again. The teen picks the dog up, so Freedy doesn't step in the glass. Mark goes upstairs and calls his mom, bringing his phone with him into the bathroom to wrap his hands.

"Mark?! Are you alright?!" She immediately asks. Mark clears his throat, brows furrowed.

"Umm, yeah. Ethan's overreacting. I was just mad at some people, and I snapped at him. I broke your vase and tried to clean it up, but I cut my hands. I'm fixing that now. No glass in my hands," he reassures, voice calm and devoid of emotion. No one needs to know. Definitely not his mother. Mark sprays his hands with alcohol, then liquid bandage, and then wraps them up around his knuckles.

"Did you seriously skip class? I got a notification from the school!" she asks. Mark scowls, feeling his hands throb in pain. Hopefully, he didn't break any bones.

"Yes. Some kids were mean," Mark admits, voice soft and tired. He knows he sounds small, weak. The teen stares down at the wrapping over his knuckles, remembering the blood leaking from them only minutes before.

"Freddy is fine. I made sure he didn't step in anything. He's with me now. I'm alright. Just… sick of school," Mark mutters, shifting to sit on the floor of his bathroom, letting Freddy move to sit between his legs, against his chest. He weakly pets over the soft fur, relaxing as the dog cuddles him. Mark relaxes, feeling the dog's breathing and his heart as Freddy snuggles up.

"So you're… you're safe?" his mother asks.

"Yes, Mom," Mark answers, giggling as Freddy licks at his face. "Freddy! Stop it!" he laughs tiredly, trying to fight off the dog's worried reassurances.

"Alright, I'll tell Ethan everything is fine," she said. "I love you," she adds before hanging up. 

Ethan finishes up the call with Mark's mom, and he turns, walking away. Each step is agitated, frustration rolling in his core like molten lava, ready to spill at any moment. Mark just doesn't give a damn, does he? Here Ethan is, almost having a panic attack over him, and Mark fucking screams at him. How dare he. Ethan's sick of it, he's so tired of worrying over that boy, then getting rejected at every turn. Ethan wipes away a few tears as he walks away. Amy already did this, but it's time Ethan did as well. Mark doesn't care about them. It's time to stop putting his heart out there for Mark to leave abandoned and frozen alone. Mark's cutting him off. Fine. Ethan will cut Mark off too.

Mark slumps down and cuddles Freddy, sitting in the silent, still bathroom. It's so sterile here, empty and void. His thoughts move leisurely in here. After an hour of sitting outside, it's so quiet in the bathroom with Freddy. He frowns slightly, hiding his face in the dog's fur. He's a coward. He huffs and grabs his phone, opening up his email.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is completely unrelated, but I decided to quit YouTube for the entire month of August. Let me tell you, this is hardest thing ever. Every five minutes, I generally switch platforms. My rotation goes: Twitter, Reddit, AO3, YouTube, Discord, repeat.
> 
> But eventually, you run out of content. YouTube was my support system XD Any Septiplier, Egos, or Danti stories y'all recommend? Please link them. I'm dying.


	40. Chapter Forty

_Hi Jack,_

_Thank you for giving me your email. I appreciate you reaching out. I don’t quite know what to talk about. I’m not very good at the whole sharing thing. Would you like to know more about me?_

_I’m nervous about the upcoming test in English. I’m never good at that class. All the metaphors and similes make no sense to me. Why would someone say they roared like a lion? I never understood it. Humans don’t roar. We aren’t lions._

_My dog, Freddy, keeps licking at my hands while I type. It’s a bit annoying, but he’s always been very cuddly and attentive. He’s got such soft fur, and he really helps me relax. I like playing fetch with him. He’s addicted to it, and it’s really relaxing for me._

_We play fetch outside in the backyard. We got lucky with the house, and so we’ve got a great yard. It’s nice and big, plenty of space for Freddy to run. The grass is thick, so we have to get it cut often. If we don’t, the wind rustles through it, and it sounds very peaceful. It’s almost timeless. You sit out there and just listen to the wind swirling through the plants that surround you._

_You’re surrounded by life, not sentient or able to do much, but life that grows and strains toward water, sun, space. We back up to a drainage creek, so there’s nobody who can spy on our backyard like in some places. The creek is in a deep gully, so I can’t get down to it easily or safely, but the sound of it is very peaceful. It trickles along and adds to the sounds._

_The trees rustle with the wind, like the grass when we don’t cut it. A lot of different birds live in the trees in the back. We get robins, finches, woodpeckers, and I think I’ve even seen a dove or two. They make such shrill sounds. I don’t like birds much. A lot of people do, but I don’t. They don’t sing. They shriek, and it’s so annoying. Their chatter makes my brain itch._

_I’m glad I’m typing this as an email instead of writing it by hand. My handwriting is awful. I don’t like writing by hand. It’s so intimate. The entire time, you’re slowly writing something down, an intention in each stroke, knowing who exactly will see this. Emails are more a stream of consciousness that moves fast enough I don’t second guess what I’m saying._

_My handwriting is terrible. It always slants horribly, and my hand just spasms weirdly sometimes. So, sometimes, there will be letters that are disproportionate to everything else. They sometimes take up two lines, and it makes me so mad. I don’t do it on purpose, but it makes it too hard for people to read._

_Plus, when you write by hand, the chances the paper gets ruined are quite high. Pollen brushes and settles on the pages. Inkblots can ruin a good line. Being too heavy-handed can cause the page beneath it to be littered in little carved lines that ruin the clean sheet. Food crumbs always get on the page, ketchup gets everywhere, tears and spit are all too common. Plus, the paper can tear. Dirt can get on it. It can crumple or rip. I don’t like writing by hand._

_Thanks,_   
_Mark_

Jack reads through the email, biting at his cuticles as Amy takes care of the customer. He’s already checked stocks, cleaned up, and fussed around with everything. Right now, there’s not much else he can do. It’s a slow day, so he’s able to work on his computer more. The teenager pores over the email again, eyes roving each line, soaking up every word as if it holds the secret to a happy life.

It’s a weird email. Mark obsesses over the outdoors a lot. He also obsesses over his handwriting. Typically, these emails are a bit broader in their intention, but Mark really zeroes in on those two. It’s not the deep, emotional stuff Jack was expecting, but Mark is probably shy. Sharing intimate things isn’t the immediate thing he does. Jack’s an open book and doesn’t hide anything, but Mark is different. That much is obvious.

It starts out normal, talking about school and his dog, but then it just gets so obsessive. Jack runs a hand through his hair and tries to figure out what to say back. He fusses over the email for hours, typing up sentences, deleting them, retyping them, deleting them again, trying something else. He eventually comes up with a response by the time he gets home.

It’s sweet and gentle, but he makes sure it doesn’t seem like he’s walking on tiptoes. He acknowledges Mark’s obsessive paragraphs but doesn’t talk too much about them. Mostly, Jack talks about himself. He has a feeling that’s what Mark wants. Jack talks about how his birthday was recent and how he’s typing this on a new computer. He talks about his job at Lola’s. He talks about his family.

Jack makes sure he mentions the problems with his life. He adds in how insecure he feels at school, how out of place and different. He puts in a few sentences about stressing over school. He shares how his family relations are a bit tense because they suspect he’s gay. If Mark doesn’t open up, Jack will. 

He will pull open his chest and bare his heart for Mark, beating and jumping in his thoracic cavity. Jack will offer it to Mark, tell him secrets he mostly keeps to himself. He will give Mark his heart and hope that the teen will understand. Mark may not be good with metaphors, but perhaps he understands this. Mayhaps, he will understand what it means to share and treasure the gifts someone shares, whether physical or just smaller secrets. Hopefully, Mark will eventually feel as if he holds enough of Jack’s heart to share some of his own heart back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I published this like a week ago, oof


	41. Chapter Forty One

Ethan stares up at the photo. Surrounded by other shots of sunsets, fire, flowers, this one was different. It is a person— a person with a sharp jawline, a big nose. A dark eyebrow tilts ever so slightly down, each brow a path of straight hair, as if drawn in a quick slash, half-moon eyes stare deep into the camera. A kid with small little divots in the skin from the corners of the nose down to the edges of the mouth, the wear and tear of facial expression already beginning to leave its footprint. The slight upward quirk of the lip, peaceful, and patient.

The other half is different. Eyebrows furrowed down to make a straight line over downcast eyes. The muscle forms a slight crinkle on the inner side of his brow. The line from nose to mouth is more pronounced, deepened with emotion. His hair is messier, swooped over his forehead with curls teasing at his brow, hiding him from the world.

Ethan took the photos last year when Mark was still hanging out with him and Amy. He thinks they're the best pictures he's ever taken. Clearly, others agree. After all, he's here at the District-Level photography gallery. He won the school competition with ease. Even here, his photo is so different from everyone else's. There are not many human subjects amongst the photography displayed on the walls.

"Is that one yours?" an old woman asks, standing beside Ethan. The teen nods, shifting from foot to foot.

"He's beautiful in it. Tortured, but beautiful," she says. Ethan sighs softly and nods.

"It's a bittersweet memory," he murmurs. She nods, eyes on the photo.

"The left is bittersweet. You can see the right side in it. The smile is tight. His lips are drawn thin. There's stress in his eyes," she observes. Ethan nods, fretting over the photo.

"Should I have made it black and white? The other photos with human subjects all seem to be black and white. It hides more of the blemishes. Plus, it's a lot easier than color grading," he rambles. She smiles with amusement.

"Emotions aren't black and white, this art shouldn't be either," she says, patting his shoulder before moving on to talk with another kid. Ethan stares after her for a moment before looking back at his photograph, heart tightening in his chest. Mark's pain is so easy to read, but he'd never consciously noticed how it registers on the "happy" side. Ethan always felt the left was a blank slate, and the right was when the curtain was ripped back. He sees the cracks in the armor now. Tragically beautiful, bittersweet, sensitive Mark. So beautiful in such heartbreaking ways. Ethan is gutted every time he looks at the photo, looks at the pain. It only serves to remind him of the rejection, the rage. It still hurts, months later, with school ending soon. Mark moved his seat in their seventh period. He sits at the empty table now. Alone. He rejects Ethan's attempts to reconcile their friendship, so Ethan gave up.

Everyone eventually congregates to the podium as the head judge steps up, microphone, and paper in hand. The top three will go on to the citywide competition in three months, with recommendations from the judges about how to improve their winning photos. Ethan waits with bated breath, his mom and dad close by. There's a long spiel about how everyone did beautifully, how it's an honor to be a judge, and every year it seems harder and harder to choose the winners. Ethan ignores the speech for the most part, before the room tenses. A silence falls over the crowd. The few seconds of stillness as one falls from a high place, tipping slowly, feeling gravity's tug, but not entirely free of the ground yet. The winners are about to be announced.

"In First Place, we have a work of art that immediately impressed all the judges. It shows the cracks in the system, reminding us of our weaknesses, niggling the backs of our minds to acknowledge our humanity, and our flaws. 'Obfuscate,' by Ethan Nestor," the woman announces. There's a break out of applause as Ethan goes still with shock. He feels his mother hugging him with joy, chattering away before he hugs back then moves forward. People part for him, and he climbs on stage. The weight of the medal looped around his neck pulls him back to full reality, the applause coming back into focus. 

The judge asks if his subject is here with him today. 

Ethan shakes his head.

She hands him the microphone.

"When I took these photos a little less than a year ago, I didn't expect this to happen. My friend, at the time, didn't mind doing a small photoshoot. We spent a couple hours out there, posing, moving locations, trying different angles. I mostly had him do sitting poses, where I had a much wider angled camera. However, as I reviewed the shots, I found that these close-ups told a story beyond anything my wide shots ever could. Every single time I look at these photos, my gut clenches, and I tense up. The humanity, shaking and flawed, is so candid in these. I want to thank everyone for letting me share this delicate moment. I'm honored to have been chosen for the city competition," Ethan said, staring at Mark's pictures the whole time. He hands back the microphone and climbs off stage. Outside, thunder cracks, and the heavens pour open. Ethan wonders where his old friend is now.

Mark walks home from his last final for the year. Technically, he has three more tomorrow, but he exempted two, and the other one is null and void because the teacher didn't want to do one. The rain soaks his jacket, clinging to him like someone else's skin. His hair droops in his face. Water droplets drip from his eyebrows and catch on lashes, bothering his eyes. His phone is heavy in the inner pocket of his bag. 

The email from Jack is unopened, unacknowledged. It sits at the top of his phone screen in the bar, a little box with a red M. The envelope. It was over a month ago. Mark hasn't even bothered to read it. Yet, he can't seem to swipe it away either. So, it sits, unopened and heavy, bulging out at him on his flat screen. He sighs and slips beneath an awning to protect his backpack. As Mark stands there, dripping wet and shaking off his bag, a figure comes running through the rain, shoes splashing in puddles, jeans soaked, bag tucked beneath his shirt, and hugging it protectively. The kid slips underneath the awning, panting beside Mark.

"The rain came out of bloody nowhere," the guy groans. Mark chuckles and nods. The other slowly stands up and smiles at Mark, holding out his hand. Mark's gut clenches and squirms with guilt as he sees who it is.

"Hi, I'm J-"

"Hi, Jack."

Blue eyes meet brown.

Brown eyes duck away.

"Hi, Mark."


	42. Chapter Forty Two

"No-go with the email, huh?" Jack asks as he moves to sit down on the blessedly dry stairs of the building they're using for shelter. Mark huffs and shakes his head a bit spastically, tugging, and fidgeting with his fingers as he stares down at the ground. He's rigid and tense, a glass filled to the brim with bottled-up emotions.

"It's alright, I know emailing can be intimidating. Trust me, it's all I do, so I totally get it," Jack chuckles, trying to reassure the nervous boy.

"Bad at sharing stuff," Mark mutters, tugging at his finger and shifting from foot to foot. Suddenly, the rain seems much more inviting.

"That's alright, I talk plenty," Jack hums, patting the space on the stairs beside him. Mark's head jerks to the movement before his eyes lift to meet Jack's. With furrowed brows and brown eyes that starkly remind Jack of the old barn door of the barn back on their property that they'd had in the countryside. The sad wooden door, sagging down, weathered from years of torrential downpours and angry winds, rotting from within.

"I'm finally done with school. I exempted my finals for tomorrow, and the English teacher isn't doing any, so that means I'm free!" Jack chirps, patting the spot again. Mark slowly moves over, each step measured and tentative. The teen sits down beside Jack, wincing at the feel of his wet jeans pressing on his skin, but it's relaxing to sit down.

"Yeah, not the best situation, am I right? Getting drenched by the rain in the first moments of freedom after a tough year. How poetically abysmal," Jack says with a giggle. Mark stares out at the puddles as they're battered by the torrential onslaught. He smiles slightly.

"I am actually thrilled to run into you, though. I always want to talk with you more, get to know you better, but nothing ever seems to line up with our schedules and whatnot," Jack rambles as he digs through his backpack. Mark raises a brow, moving to curl up into a ball beside Jack.

"Yeah, I really- aw, shite!" he curses, accent coming out a bit. Mark startles, turning to look at Jack with confusion at the sudden outburst.

"My feckin' laptop!" Jack bemoans, hurriedly trying to wipe off the dampness with his shirt, even though his shirt is wet. Mark's lips purse into a thin line as he watches. "No, no, no," Jack whispers under his breath. There's real sadness in the sound, pain, and fear of losing their only connection to the modern world—someone losing their most beloved possession. Mark turns and digs to the bottom of his bag, pulling out his gym clothes. They aren't the best-smelling things ever, but at least they're dry. He offers the shirt out to Jack.

"Here," he manages out, voice a bit rough from how little he uses it these days. Jack hastily takes it, wiping down his computer. He hurriedly inspects it, turning it on and running through a few diagnostic tests. Mark watches with that same nervous, shifting energy, blinking with the rapid clicks, and clacks as Jack's fingers fly across the keyboard. After a minute or so, Jack lets out a soft sigh.

"Thanks, dude, saved my ass there. If the water had gotten inside, I would've been screwed," Jack says, smiling at Mark. The teen nods and takes back his damp shirt, shoving it back down into his backpack. His hand brushes against something that crinkles and sinks under his weight. Mark frowns and digs it out. An unopened, somehow-mostly-whole twinkie is grasped between his fingers. He deftly opens it and holds the twinkie out to Jack, tearing off a piece for himself and eating it.

"I can have some?" Jack asks with surprise, eyes wide. Mark nods and shrugs. It's not a big deal to him. Jack breaks out into a huge grin, positively beaming as he carefully tears off a piece of the dessert and tentatively nibbles on it. It's a big deal to him.

"I've never had a Twinkie before, dude. I can see how people get addicted," Jack breathes with satisfaction, eyes lighting up at the sugary flavor. Mark smiles and shrugs, reaching forward and eating another small piece.

"Thanks, man, you really don't have too," Jack says quietly as he takes another small piece. Mark blushes and resolutely stares out at the streaming watery world surrounding their little dry island beneath the awning. He half expects the colors of everything to blot and leak away, spreading and intermingling as the water soaks the world around them.

"Bro, I'm gonna have to talk to Amy about figuring out a Twinkie recipe. This shit's delicious and would sell like… like hotcakes!" he says. Mark snorts quietly at the stupid joke, not getting it, but the silly grin on Jack's face makes him laugh. He eats another bite.

"Plus, not only that but like… since I work there, I get free food. I'd just take the off-brand Twinkie's home every day!" Jack plots, rubbing his hands together mischievously. Mark raises a brow, watching him with bemusement.

"And I can give you some too, as thanks!" Jack decides, sending Mark into another bout of blushing and staring out into the rain. The crinkle of the wrapper as Jack goes in for another bite makes Mark shake his head, blinking a bit. Jack watches with an observant gaze, smiling with a sad, knowing gaze in his blue eyes. Yet again, it happened—first the keyboard, now the crinkling wrapper. Mark is sensitive to noise. No wonder the thunderstorm and power outage made him panic earlier in the year.

"I really like the rain. It seems to mute the world. Colors dull, noises soften, and steady sounds fill it, especially if you're by a window listening to the rain against it," Jack comments quietly. Mark stares down at the ground now, and he nods.

"I like the smell after, too," Mark murmurs, clearing his throat and silently wincing at the sound of his voice.

"It's called petrichor," Jack remarks absentmindedly. Mark nods and smiles, perking up.

"It's a combo of plant oils, and this chemical compound called geosmin, which is released by bacteria in the soil," Mark informs, voice soft and a bit raspy. Jack grins.

"Wait, so the smell is bacteria farts and plant pee?" he asks with a giggle. Mark snorts and nods.

"I know, I really have a sophisticated sense of humor," Jack says, smirking playfully. Mark smiles and shrugs, eating a piece of Twinkie as Jack goes off on a long tangent. He watches Jack as he talks, following the way his lips contort with each syllable, the way his brows furrow at certain inflections, the way his head tilts when he giggles or grins at his own jokes. He stays away from Jack's eyes, unable to make eye contact after the first time. It was so intense. It was too much for him. Yet, he revels in the absent chatter that fills the air, relaxing with the steady downpour of words and rain surrounding him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really happy with how this story is going. I feel like my prose just keeps getting better and better too. As a writer, when I read a good book, I'll absolutely melt over metaphors and stuff. I remember in a book called All The Light We Cannot See, there was a description of the dead trees being like the skeletal hands of the dead coal miners who suffocated below, sticking up through the earth. Like, GOD DAMN. So, when I read my own stuff and go GOD DAMN, it makes me feel like I'm doing something good. Like... The colors blotting and smearing together in the rain. AGH. Or Mark's eyes being like Jack's old barn door. EEK. I'm such a geek for good prose.


	43. Chapter Forty Three

Once the rain stops, they go their separate ways. Mark emails Jack, and they decide to try this whole thing again. They begin a regular correspondence with lots of stupid nonsense and silliness. Jack sends a plethora of random deep-fried memes, and Mark sends a shitload of pictures of random articles (most of them are about space). On the first day of sophomore year, Mark slouches into class in his usual attire of a baggy hoodie, loose jeans, and old shoes, but none of it is loose anymore. He's filled out, and now the hoodie stretches over muscle, the jeans hug muscular thighs. Jack stares wide-eyed from the back lab table he's seated at. The boy he'd been talking to all summer had turned into a man, at least physically.

Mark looks around before moping his way to the back. He sits down beside Jack with a tiny wave. Jack closes his gaping mouth and grins. Mark has a beard. A short trim, nothing much, but it's not patchy or anything. He has a full beard that only further defines his sharp jawline.

"Puberty t-boned someone," Jack quips in a sing-song voice. Mark stares at him in confusion.

"Puberty isn't a car?" he answers.

"Oh, I'm saying it hit you over the summer. Dude, you're jacked! You have a fucking beard!" Jack exclaims. Mark blushes.

"I'm just too lazy to shave it the whole way. Buzzing it is easier," he mutters. Jack laughs.

"Don't, it looks great. If mine wasn't patchy as hell, I'd be doing it too," Jack reassures with a grin. "Also, where did these big boys come from?" he asked, poking Mark's closest bicep.

"Dad made me workout," is all Mark mutters, shrugging.

"Don't worry, you're still beautiful," Jack simpers in reassurance before letting out a giggle. Mark glowers playfully before slouching back in his seat. Jack focuses on the teacher as she begins talking. Mark presses on his clicker every once in a while. He didn't do very well in a situation like this, with new people, new teachers, and a new environment. Everything was foreign, and it all gets to him so much faster.

"Alright, for today, we'll be doing some icebreakers. Now, I know most of you are internally groaning at the thought right now. However, I guarantee that these will be important. I run this class in a style where you guys do most of the learning and teach yourself. After today, you'll pick a partner to do the projects with. There will be a project for every single unit that will count as a summative. I expect you to choose your partner wisely. After all, it's your grade for the year," the teacher announces. Mark scowls and pouts, slouching down and crossing his arms. He hates partner work. Immediately, people are twisting and turning in their seats, mouthing silent conversations and pointing around.

"After all the icebreakers, you will write down your top three partner picks on a slip of paper and turn it in. From there, I'll sort it out, and everyone should get someone they actually want as a partner," the teacher adds with a smile. Jack looks around the room and sighs. He's not exactly close friends with anyone around here. The teacher directs everyone through several rotating icebreaker games that involve a lot of walking around and talking. Mark is as quiet as humanly possible. He doesn't ask many questions, doesn't answer many questions.

_His three names are as follows:_

_Jack_

_\--_

_\--_

_(Nobody else likes me cause I don't talk)_

So, the next day, when the teacher calls him up to her desk while everyone else is doing the warm-up, it doesn't surprise him. She has his slip of paper in front of it.

"Mark, can you explain this please?" she asks softly. Mark shrugs. He doesn't like talking. The sound of his voice fills his head and clashes with all the other sounds happening around him. He doesn't like it.

"Can you tell me why you don't talk?" she questions in a voice indicating at discretion and kindness. Mark shakes his head. It'll sound stupid to her.

"Alright, well, presentations do require you to talk, you know that," she reminds. For the moment, she accepts defeat, though she takes a mental note to carefully watch the young teen for any signs of distress. Mark nods and shrugs again. She stares at him for a long minute. Mark stares down at the desk.

"Okay, well… Jack can be your partner. You were his first pick as well," she decides with a tentative smile. Mark nods and turns, going back to his desk.

"What was that all about?" Jack queries. Mark shrugs. Jack stares at Mark for a long moment before nodding. He will respect Mark's boundaries. No doubt, the teen is feeling quite overwhelmed by being back at school after a peaceful, quiet summer.

"Alright, well, it should be an interesting day. I'm curious about the drama of the partner-selection. If Jenna and Julien aren't partners, I'm suing someone. They're damn adorable," Jack whispers, moving on from the topic and cracking a joke to lighten the mood. He chatters away, stopping only for the teacher as she announces partners. After each one, he adds a small little comment, whispering them to his desk partner. Mark smiles and snorts as some of the silly jokes, but others don't land. All the pun-type jokes or references don't make Mark laugh, but the funny reactions and stupid things made him laugh. Jack takes mental notes, just like the teacher. 

The pair are partnered up, and they go over the first rubric and instructions for the project. Unit One: Ecosystems seems like a reasonably simple unit to get into the swing of things. Jack does all the talking, and Mark relaxes in his chair, soothed by the steady, constant stream of quiet chatter from his friend. For once, there's no pressure to act normal.


	44. Chapter Forty Four

Time seems to move in slow motion for Jack. He builds a pattern that rolls around, hitting the same bumps and slowing at the same spots every day. He wakes up, gets ready, and walks to school. The first week is rainy and dreary. So, the memory of his chat with Mark circles in his brain like the small pools of water swirling about before they slip down the street drains. During the week, everything is damp and cool, muted and quiet. Cars whisper down the roads, water eliciting a shushing sound under their tires. People walk with purpose, cutting the chatter in favor of reaching their destination quickly. Businesses soften, signs blurred by rain.

The rain has him thinking of Mark, thinking of the tiny smiles, soft blush, and aversion to eye contact. As he walks, he ponders what he’ll talk about in class with him today, what silly things he can bring up, what tidbits of information to share. Mark seems to like it when he constantly talks, so Jack tries to keep it as steady as possible, consistently sending his stream of consciousness into the world for Mark to hear.

When he arrives at school, he meanders around until the bell rings, going over his plans for the day. Once the bell goes off, he walks into his first period, a pep in his step and a smile on his face. After greeting the teacher, he unpacks and takes out their papers and work from yesterday. Mark always walks in right before the bell rings, and Jack instantaneously starts talking. He only stops for the teacher. As the class goes on, they work. Mark writes down notes and information, interjecting his thoughts directly into the work. Jack does the research and chats about their plan, discussing details as Mark nods or shakes his head. Occasionally, Mark will say something, but for the most part, he stays quiet. However, when he does talk, his voice is rough and crawling—each word deliberate. Jack likes it. Mark’s voice is deep, and it reminds him of rolling thunder in the distance, low and slow.

His routine continues when the period ends, and Jack goes on his way. In other classes, he’s much quieter. Mark draws out the chatty side because Mark likes that side. However, Jack doesn’t have anybody else to talk to that much in the other courses, so he stays quiet. As the day crawls onward, his teachers seem to speak at the speed of the sun on a long, hot, hazy summer day. Any infinitesimally small inflection is a refreshing breeze rolling over parched earth, stirring the drowsy students that laze about in the heavy heat of monotony and boredom.

At lunch, he finds Mark. The troubled teen seems to always find a new place to hide. Nevertheless, Jack has mastered the spots after a few days: one of the band practice rooms, the library, his old English teacher, the new science teacher, or, on a particularly bad day, Mark may go to the opposite end of the school, where there was a deserted art class with access to an outside area. Mark would crack the door open with one of his shoes to get back inside, then, the teen would sit outdoors.

He sits silently with Mark on the hard days, letting the breeze flow over their faces and through their hair, ignoring Mark’s red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks because Mark got mad the first time he mentioned them. After lunch, Jack continues the day and finishes up his school class. Then, he rushes to work, relieving Amy’s father and coping with rush hour students. A few hours later, Amy joins him, and Jack relaxes more. He generally works overtime with her, helping the girl out, dabbling in homework when he can, and chatting. Today, with the rain outside, Jack’s mind is on Mark.

“I just don’t know what to do. Candy never talks, and he’s super cute, and really sweet when he does talk. I don’t know how to get him out of his shell,” Jack groans. Yes, he uses an obnoxious stripper name as his codename for Mark. No, he hasn’t told Amy who it is. Yes, Mark is gorgeous, and Candy is a hilarious nickname for him.

“Well, you guys have only been at it for a week. Maybe he’s just timid,” Amy hums as she cleans a table.

“But it’s so frustrating. He’s so pretty, and I just wanna hold a conversation with him,” Jack whines.

“Talking probably isn’t his love language, Jack. You should take one of those love language quizzes as if you were him, to see what his love language is,” Amy says. Recently, she’s been riding the personality test wave and has taken almost every test possible under the sun. Jack rolls his eyes and scoffs but searches up the questionnaire.

“Oh yeah, like hypothesizing that nonsense about Candy is gonna help me,” he counters sarcastically. Amy shrugs and glances up, smiling lightly at her friend.

“Hey, you might not know everything about Candy, but this test will at least help you isolate what you definitely know and what you definitely don’t,” she replies. The teen waltzes over, peering over Jack’s shoulder at his laptop screen. “Yeah, the first one, right there,” she hums, pointing around him to the link. Jack nods and clicks it, going to the teenager test. Amy meanders off, helping a customer and cleaning as Jack works through the quiz. After a few minutes, Jack’s done. He’s got the results. From what he knows about Mark, touch, and gift-giving are the two highest options. Anything to do with talking was a big no-no, and eye contact or intimate moments of conversation were absolutely not options. Mark didn’t seem to like it when Jack did things for him. Mark always took it as sympathy or pity. Mark always shuts down if Jack tries to do something for him.

However, touch and gift-giving are new. Jack didn’t have anything to give Mark, but Jack could touch him. Jack could give him a pat on the shoulder. Jack could teasingly ruffle his hair. Jack could give him a hug. Unlike gifts, touch is something Jack can distribute freely. He smiles and closes his laptop with a light click. For the rest of his shift, Amy and Jack chatter away about other things, but as the light drizzle outside continues to fall, Jack’s mind is filled with his new plan to help Mark.


	45. Chapter Forty Five

Jack hustles into class, panting and disheveled, right as the bell rings. Mark doesn’t notice, staring at the wall and nodding his head along to some tune only he could hear. Mark only focuses as the other begins to talk, tossing papers and pens onto the desk. Jarring from the floating, ethereal thoughts that wander through his mind when he zones out, the teenager focuses on Jack’s chatter.

“Frickin’ asshole spilled coffee right as my damn shift ended. Why today? Why the one week Amy can’t do her morning shift? Everythings a disaster. Christ, Mark, I’m so sorry. I know we’ve got that long lab today. I’m a hot mess, man,” Jack sputters out, hastily zipping up his bag and tossing it to the side. Mark watches the spectacle for a moment longer before reaching out and resting a hand on Jack’s forearm as the other is stretching for the binder. Jack freezes like a kid caught digging in the candy jar, wide-eyed and sheepish.

Mark closes his eyes, tilts his head to the side, and smiles before patting Jack’s forearm and pulling away. He turns to the papers and gathers them up, turning and making his way back to the lab tables, where all the other groups have started working. Jack is quiet, and he follows Mark with a dumbfounded expression, giddy and shocked still, all in one face.

Mark slides the lab paper to Jack, tapping the top paragraph as if to say “read it” before he focuses on gathering up the materials they need. While Mark would never dare run the lab by himself, he did prepare. With his random needs to block out sight, sound, or smell, it would not bode well to be in the middle of pouring acid into a container and start panicking when someone suddenly coughs. By the time he finishes gathering the necessary materials and tools, Jack finishes reading through the paper.

Jack takes Mark’s silence in stride, as he has done with every other piece of work they’ve done together. He immediately takes control, and Mark hands him ingredients, jotting down important notes and observations as they work.

“So now we need iodine…” Jack hums, about halfway through the lab. Mark reaches to grab it before frowning. Shit, he’d missed that one. He straightens to go grab it, but Jack pats him on the shoulder and walks over to the chemical closet. Mark turns back to the paper, scribbling some more notes. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, feeling the oxygen cleanse his system. He likes to imagine clean, fresh air sweeping into his lungs, slipping through alveoli, and purging his veins and blood vessels of the stress that builds up, clotting, and dangerous. Obviously, that’s not how it works, but it helps keep him calm. He stands up again and turns to check on Jack, opening his eyes, only to turn and bump directly into Jack as the teen makes his way back.

“Shit,” Jack curses as he stumbles from bumping shoulders with Mark, and almost in slow motion, the bottle tips and splatters all over Mark. The iodine immediately soaks into the fabric of Mark’s shirt and pants. “Fuck! Umm… Mrs.-” Jack calls, but Mark’s hearing is going fuzzy. He is startled by the bump with the sudden sensation, Jack’s loud cursing only pushed him further. He feels two hands on his shoulders. Someone is already blocking out his vision before he can even begin hyperventilating. The hands are grounding, the soothing tone is familiar.

“Hey there, that’s good, man. It’s just iodine, it’s not dangerous. I’ll… I’ll pay for the clothes, but it’s not dangerous. You’re safe, everything fine, you’re safe,” Jack murmurs, blue eyes coming more into focus as Mark draws back to reality. Mark made Jack stumble, but when Mark began to fall, Jack immediately caught him before he could slide off the deep end. He nods and turns his attention to the teacher, who helps him blot off as much as he can, before sending him and Jack off to the nurse so Mark can get a change of clothes.

“You don’t need to pay me back for the clothes; they’re cheap. I need new ones anyway,” Mark reassured gently, smiling softly at Jack, who tentatively nodded. Mark watches as Jack averts his gaze to the floor and bites his lip, furrowed brows, and darkening eyes indicative of his guilt.

“Thanks for calming me down. You caught me before I could really slip. No one’s ever done that before. I really appreciate it,” Mark follows up, tilting his head and smiling at Jack, who nods. Mark frowns and keeps going, feeling a deep urge to lift away that frown and transform it back to that bright smile that often adorned Jack’s lips. His throat is scratchy and tired from the few sentences already, but he continues.

“And… and thank you for putting up with my bullshit. Nobody else likes doing anything with me, or even close to me, because I’m weird to them. You’re really nice, and just,” Mark said before shaking his head a few times to clear it, blinking a couple times, “You make me happy, more than anybody else has. You don’t treat me differently, and nobody else has ever done that. You just talk and talk, and let me exist in the background. I can move freely in the blurry background when the focus is on your voice, you know?” he tries to explain, before coughing. Fuck, he hasn’t talked that much in a long time. Jack is looking at him now, that small smile back.

“Really?” he asks like a tentative chirp of a bird as it lands and asks for a piece of bread or food, tilting his head to the side and looking at Mark with bright eyes. Already, the smile is growing back. Mark flushes, obviously just the coughing, and nods, averting his own gaze as soon as Jack begins to look up again. The teenager leans over and wraps Mark in a side-hug, grinning wide.

“Dude, that honestly means the world to me,” he says. Mark smiles with a slight twitch of the corners of his lips and side-hugs Jack back, relaxing at the grounding sensation of contact. It’s only once they get to the nurse’s office do they realize Mark’s wet shirt stained Jack’s as well, but at that point, they grin and laugh it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh, a lack of motivation again. I'm trying to figure out why I keep getting these slumps. I believe I've zeroed in on the solution, but I must undergo another month of testing to confirm my hypothesis. We shall see.
> 
> Also, after not writing for like a week, I always feel so clunky. The prose just... disappears, and my sentence formation feels weak. Does anyone else experience this? Is it even worse, or am I just being my own worst critic?


	46. Chapter Forty Six

Mark stares down at his laptop, biting at the cuticle of his thumb as he reads over Jack's email. They have a lot of work to do on this current project, so they agreed to meet up somewhere over the weekend. Mark let Jack pick the place and time, knowing Jack had a much busier schedule than Mark. However, he didn't expect it to be the one coffee shop with too many memories—Lola's.

What was he supposed to do? Mark couldn't go ahead and nix that; Jack was always cramped for time. He obviously picked Lola's for a reason. Isn't that where he works? Something like that. Mark remembers something about Twinkies and talking to... her. He sighs and closes his laptop with a decisive click, shoving it into his bag, grabbing his folder, and heading out the door.

When Mark arrives, Jack is sitting in the corner by the shelves of books, lounging in one of the chairs. The atmosphere is the same, soft color pallet, happy music, the familiar scent of coffee. Mark nervously glances over at the counter, but there's no sign of Amy, so she must be in the back. He takes advantage of that fact and hurries over, picking the seat that most obscures Amy's view of him. Jack perks up and grins as Mark sits down on the other side of the table.

"How's it going?" the blue-eyed teen asks with a smile, pulling his backpack into his lap to dig through it. Mark shrugs and gives a quick rotation of his hand as if to say 'so-so.'

"That's alright, not every day is amazing. I'm pretty tired myself, if I'm being honest. I worked late yesterday and came in early today since I'm taking the afternoon shift off to work on this project. But hey, I'm happy you're here," Jack chatters away as he digs out his laptop. Soon the pair gets things set up, getting on with things. Mark's stomach growls, and he huffs. Shit, he should've eaten something before he came.

"I can get you something if you'd like. I get all the discounts, yanno," Jack offers with a grin. Mark tentatively peaks over the back of his chair. Still no sign of Amy. He turns back around and nods, digging out his wallet and handing Jack a ten. It crinkles in the exchange, and Mark blinks at the unexpected sound before he opens his mouth to speak. He closes it hastily, frowning and clearing his throat.

"Hot chocolate and… two croissants," he says, finally letting go of the bill. He frowns, voice scratchy and hoarse, but Jack doesn't react. He smiles and nods and easily ignores Mark's problems with willful ignorance. The teen stands and walks off, leaving Mark to work on breath control.

"Hey, Amy, a hot chocolate and two croissants, please?" Jack asks, setting the cash on the counter. Amy perks her head out from the back to look at him, like a meerkat scanning the area.

"Can you ring it up? I'll get it to you after I finish these dishes," she requests before ducking into the backroom again. Jack shrugs and leans over the counter, typing it in and counting out the proper change. He takes the receipt and goes back over to Mark.

"It'll be ready soon," he murmurs, setting the money on the small table beside Mark as he meets his friend's nervous, dark gaze. Those brown eyes follow him as he sits down, roving over his posture with jerky, darting regard. Mark doesn't know where to focus, but he signs 'thank you' to Jack, touching his chin with his flattened fingers and gesturing outward, almost like blowing a kiss. He has learned a few basic signs over the years, and they're easy enough for others to guess the meaning of. Jack smiles lightly at the gesture. He doesn't entirely understand why Mark doesn't talk more, but they aren't close enough to ask just yet. In the meantime, he'll do his best to be kind and gentle with the fragile boy across from him. As they start the project, Amy brings over the drink and food. As she approaches, the girl stills for a moment, a freeze-frame of shock, at the sight of Mark, before she recovers. Her jaw tightens, and she sets down the mug and plate on the table between Jack and Mark.

"There you are," she says, eyes cast downward to the food on the table. Mark stares up at her, brows furrowing as his eyes widen downward with deep emotion. Jack decides it is akin to a time-lapse of a wilting flower—sinking down and darkening, the life draining with a rapidity that serves as a reminder of death.

What died between them to cause such a reaction?

Jack doesn't ask, quietly thanking Amy before sliding the food towards Mark. She hurriedly leaves as Mark stares down at the table, posture drooping like that dying blossom in his eyes. Jack opens his mouth to raise a question, before he snaps his jaw shut and shakes his head as a reprimand to himself, leaning back and letting Mark be. The teen turns his attention back to the laptops and begins typing, allowing his friend to recollect himself. Eventually, Mark gathers himself and takes a napkin, carefully wrapping up the croissants, stashing them in his bag. Then, he sips on the hot chocolate, leaning over to read what Jack's typing up. They work on the project for a few hours while Amy stays as far away as possible. Mark slouches back with a tired puff as they finish going over the final paragraph.

"Bloody hell, that was long," Jack breathes, slumping in his seat as he shuts his laptop with a click. Mark shakes his head at the click and blinks harshly a few times, refocusing himself before nodding.

"Whaddya say we skedaddle and go do something fun?" Jack asks with a gentle smile. Usually, he'd play up the impishness and smirk, but he wasn't sure Mark could handle that energy right now. Mark tentatively looked up with furrowed brows. Jack shrugs in answer to the questioning gaze, standing and shouldering his bag.

"It's too early to head home. Let's go explore," the teen declares, standing tall and straight, attempting to emit as much confidence as possible in some desperate hope that Mark will pick up at least some of it. Those soft, brown eyes drift downward to gaze at Jack's feet, unable to hold eye contact. Mark deliberates, weighing the options as if considering the fate of the universe. Jack waits a few moments before he crouches down and rests his hands on Mark's knees. Jack looks up at the teenager with a small smile that speaks of understanding and grace, even if he doesn't understand. Jack can at least try to act like he does, in the hopes it will reassure Mark.

"It's alright if you don't want to, I won't be offended. That project was definitely exhausting," Jack murmurs, before hastily tacking on "man," at the end, after a pause. So far, his method of avoiding intimacy during these moments had been to nail on "dude," or "bro," or "man," at the end of everything. It keeps things within official friend-zone barriers. Not that Jack would be opposed to a relationship, but Mark… Well, Mark was struggling, and Jack doubted anything like that was on his mind. The brown eyes of his friend scour Jack's, desperately diving into the deep blue searching for something. Jack never knows what Mark is looking for. But this time, he seems to have found it relatively quickly.

"Let's go," he croaks out. Jack's lips split into a wide grin, eyes lighting up. Mark looks away, but he does catch a glimpse of it. Those blue eyes sparkle like a sunset over water, and Mark blushes at the thought of the absolute joy Jack radiates from Mark's simple answer. Mark blinks a few times, clearing that scratchy, raggedy voice from his mind before standing and tossing his bag over his shoulder.


	47. Chapter 47

Amy sprays down a table, wiping over it with a rag. Her hair casts a curtain over the side of her face that hides her eyes from view as she covertly watches Mark and Jack. They'd worked for several hours, but now, the boys have stood up, and they're facing each other. Jack's doing most of the talking, and he doesn't ever seem to pause, just chattering on and on and on without even seeming to take a breath. Mark doesn't speak; he rarely even opens his mouth. Amy watches as the pair leaves, the bell ringing atop the door in a signal of their departure while the two teens step out onto the sidewalk of the busy street.

Silence fills the cafe as she makes her way over to their deserted table. It's not a busy day. Most people are home on Saturdays, with no need for a quick fix of caffeine from the shop on the way to work. It's empty for the moment. There is nothing but memories and regrets to fill the empty seats at the table of disconsolation reserved under the name Nelson. Amy halts her cleaning and braces her arms against the back of the chair, staring down at the wooden surface that hosted books and laptops just moments ago. Mark is so different now. It's been a long while since they've seen each other, and even longer since they've talked. He's changed so much, in some good ways, but a few bad changes as well.

Mark has filled out, with buff arms and a broad chest to match the big head. His jawline is sharper, dusted with dark stubble. He looks healthier. He finally looks balanced, comfortable in his own skin. But, so much is the same, or even worse. His ability to maintain eye contact has lessened. That sad, desperate, empty vacancy in his gaze is stronger than ever, searing into her vision after even the shortest of glances. Not only that, but did he even talk? Amy never saw him open his mouth, except to eat. He replied to Jack with a few signs that he only used if he was struggling not to panic. However, this place is quiet and comfortable, and Jack is kind, so there was no reason for Mark to freak out. No reason but Amy.

Wasn't she reason enough?

She dropped him. Leaving him alone in his emotions to wallow in bitterness and frustration, wading in stagnant pools of despondence, sinking deeper into the murky depths as the detritus falls down with any pressure, pulling him deeper and deeper.

Mark once told her she made him feel fast. He said he felt like he was in a time-lapse with her, people moving past in bothersome blurs of color and sound that could never pierce his concentration. With her, the surrounding world became a rainbow of colors and an orchestra of sounds that muted and tempered down in her presence.

Amy rubs her face and pushes off the chair, grabbing the cleaning materials and marching back to the counter. She sets the materials aside, scooping up Mark's used mug. There's only a few dribbles of hot chocolate left, the dredges at the bottom of the pool where Amy left Mark.

Amy puts the plate and cup down in the sink, hands shaking so that the glass jitters and clatters together before falling still with a resolute clank against the steel bottom of the basin. She grabs the edges of the sink, taking several deep breaths and closing her eyes. There's that familiar burn behind her eyelids, that pain in her throat, that emptiness in her gut. She lets out a soft sob, bowing her head in defeat as the regret overcomes her. In the empty kitchen, it rings.

Jack takes Mark to the nearby park, the sun shining overhead, birds chirping, a soft breeze flowing through the air. A picturesque day meant lots of people outdoors, lots of people to pass, lots of people making noise at the parks. They're at the pond, wistfully watching the ducks as the flock chases after a kid with a hot dog. A musician starts playing the guitar nearby. A dog barks to their right. Mark frowns lightly and stops moving, closing his eyes to eliminate at least one of the many stimuli assaulting his senses.

"Mark? Hey, yeah, I know, it's a lot. I'm getting us to a good spot. I know it's a lot. Can you hang in there for me? Anything you need, I got you, I know you can do it," Jack says after realizing what Mark is doing. He doesn't touch Mark, doesn't add any stimuli, but he speaks softly, voice level, and almost monotonous. Mark's brows furrow and he gives a slight nod. The teenager opens his eyes, finding those soft pools of blue so close that he almost falls into them, gathering himself before he gets lost in those cerulean depths. He averts his gaze to the ground, unable to look too long. Mark takes a calming breath, imagining the clean air filling his lungs, spreading through his veins, cleansing him of the fear, the panic, the uncertainty.

Mark slowly moves his gaze up Jack's legs before finding the teenager's hands calmly resting at his sides. Mark bites his lip and leans forward, tentatively taking Jack's wrist and pulling his hand up. Those dark eyes examine Jack's hand, and the teenager does his best to stay limp and pliant for Mark. After whatever test Mark mentally ran through, he intertwines their fingers, eyes drifting back down to the ground.

"Whatever you need," Jack murmurs, voice a soft hum that floats in the small space between them, wrapping around their intertwined hands in a gentle promise. Mark smiles lightly, squeezing Jack's hand for a moment. Jack squeezes back, and Mark huffs with amusement. The two continue on as if everything is the same, but for Jack, his heart is racing, and he's doing mental cartwheels in celebration at the contact.

For Mark, he once again starts to move at lightspeed.


	48. Chapter Forty Eight

Mark shifts in his seat, sinking down along the plastic curve as his chin tucks to his chest. He stares over at the door, watching with bated breath. Jack is supposed to come today. They're going to work on the project. They've done all the actual work by now, but neither can admit that. They both somehow keep finding issues with the design, or the wording of a sentence, or a need to double-check a source. He traces the dark frame of the door and the empty space out into the hallway. Mark prays Jack will break through the plane that divides the room from the hall and shatter the barrier with his brilliant grin and hopping step.

His hopes are soon achieved, as he hears the soft thud of sneakers on the floor, a rustle of a bag. Then, Jack is there, filling the space with that smile and chasing away all the fears of abandonment that nestle deep within Mark's heart. Jack greets the teacher before stepping in, hurrying over to Mark and taking a seat. Mark tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath as he lets his other senses take over.

The teenager revels in the murmurs drifting from Jack's lips, errant and passing words that drift along Jack's river of consciousness before catching against the banks, passing into Mark's head, soft bumps that break up the streaming cascade of his own mind. Mark sags in the seat, head lolling back against the stiff, rigid back of the chair as a small smile twitches at his lips. Already, the familiarity with Jack's rambling is soothing and amusing.

Jack makes him feel at ease. Jack's constant chatter, his bright smile, his understanding gaze. He helps soothe Mark's mind, like a hummingbird at a bush of flowers. He flutters and flaps about, continually buzzing and darting from topic to topic, feathers shining bright to help Mark focus. It works well, slowing the vicious winds that tear around Mark's head down to soft breezes. The chatter allows passing thoughts to drip slowly, sweet nectar encouraged by Jack's gentle promise of comfort.

The lunch period passes quickly, and though Mark stays quiet, Jack is elated. He is finally spending more time with Mark. He gets more time with the boy that haunts his thoughts each day, filling them with memories of delicate smiles and glimmering eyes. His hours are filled with reminders of smiles and choked giggles, strained and wheezing, but with shaking shoulders as Mark's body and mind rock together, prompted by Jack's silly jokes and goofy humor.

Jack holds those moments close to his heart, reveling in every glimpse of the boy behind the wall of protective measures. They show the fragile soul, carefully guarded behind layers of pain, with the unbounded love he has to offer that shines through in those moments. Mark's joy is molten gold, searing and shining as it fills Jack's heart, warming it and smoothing over the cracks left from the cruelty of so many, but ever so rare.

That Sunday, the pair goes to the park again. Jack guides Mark along the busier trails, and they hold hands, even though the throngs of people have been tempered by the darkening clouds overhead. Mark tugs on Jack's hand, letting out a soft noise to get his attention, before nodding his head towards a food truck parked by some nearby picnic tables.

"Sure, yeah, what do you want?" he asks immediately, knowing what Mark is requesting. The teenager shrugs before pulling away from Jack, keeping a grip on his hand and tugging him towards the truck. Jack barks out a laugh, amused with the impatient hunger that rouses Mark from his timid self into an assertive, dominant personality. Mark stops at the truck, peering over the chalkboard with the options for the day. He huffs and brushes his hair back, tucking a long strand behind his ear. The teenager taps the board, pointing to the bottom option and holding up two fingers before digging in his wallet.

"Two brisket sandwiches, please," Jack orders as Mark pulls out a ten, holding it up. The teenager furrows his brows and stares down at the counter between them, not letting go of the money as he freezes for a moment. The man running the truck is holding the other end of the bill, but he’s unable to take it as he looks at Mark with evident confusion. Mark isn’t letting go. Mark clears his throat, opening his mouth a few times, feeling his heart hammer in his throat, making it ache. Jack looks between the two before slowly reaching out, tentatively touching Mark's forearm.

"Mark? The money?" he whispers, looking at his friend with tentative confusion that slows his movements and puts intentional weight behind each breath and word. Mark blinks a few times and clears his throat again, resolutely staring down at the counter. This is for Jack. He lets go of the money as he fixates on the cold stainless steel beneath his fingertips.

"Two extra buns," he says, voice grating and shaking, but he says it. He says it to a complete stranger. He says it for Jack. Mark's fingers curl into fists, clasping around the moment of bravery and clutching to it as he pulls away, huddling back into Jack's side.

"Two brisket sandwiches and two extra buns?" the man clarifies. Jack grins and nods, immediately putting on his face of bravado again as he finishes up the last bit of the order. As the man prepares their food, Mark and Jack sit at the table. Mark is taking slow, deep breaths, but his eyes glimmer, darting about. They catch his friend's gaze, and Jack immediately breaks into a grin, watching the pride shift and dance in those stunning eyes. Mark was able to say something to a complete stranger, without prompting, without needing to. Jack reaches forward and gives Mark's hand a gentle squeeze, showing his happiness in any way he can. 

They get their food and continue on, eating as they walk. As the two teenagers finish up the sandwiches, Mark holds up the tinfoil-wrapped bread buns he ordered. He takes Jack's hand, tugging on him again as he begins to veer off the trail, taking a short-cut. The pair traipses along before eventually arriving along an empty, abandoned bank on the far side of the pond. Mark points out at the ducks and opens up the foil, a soft smile dancing on his lips. Jack giggles with surprise.

"You got the bread for the ducks?"

Mark nods and tears off a piece, tossing it onto the bank near the water. Immediately, a couple of them are interested in the pair of teens. He turns and looks at Jack, smiling at him before immediately abandoning eye contact in favor of watching the ducks paddle towards them. Jack grins, sitting down on the bank with a bun of his own. He tosses out a piece, watching as they clear the water and waddle forward, pecking down at the bread and quacking in satisfaction.

Mark sits down beside him with a content sigh, leaning against Jack "to make sharing the bread easier," and because… It made him feel happy. Jack doesn't acknowledge it, allowing the contact and acting entirely normal as they sit in silence, together, enjoying the peace of the park.


	49. Chapter Forty Nine

Jack makes his way to the library, hood up and pace hurried as he hastens to beat the ever-growing clouds and thunder that tumbles across the sky, whispers, and prophecies of the storm to come. The wind is picking up, leaves rattling on trees, limbs swaying and dancing to the beat of the encroaching thunder.

The library is blissfully empty, being Sunday afternoon. Jack revels in the peace and quiet, lightening his steps as he draws back his hood and moves through the aisles, soft steps against the carpet the only sound. He curls up in one of the chairs in the corner, pulling out his laptop and opening up Discord. His eyes light up, seeing that silly picture of Felix with a small green circle in the bottom right. He’s online. Jack presses the video-call, curling up his legs in the chair, making himself comfortable, and plugging in his earbuds. Moments later, the call is picked up, and Jack’s lips curl into a tender smile.

“Hey Felix,” he murmurs, body relaxing into the seat at the sight of his familiar friend. Felix grins in return, leaning back in his gaming chair.

“Sup Jack,” he greets, Swedish accent stronger than it used to be. When he was in America, his accent was only slight, but now that he’s back in Sweden, the accent has made a full return. Jack lays his head against the armrest of the chair, blinking slowly at the camera and taking a moment to observe Felix. His hair is relaxed today, draping in parted bangs. He’s got his glasses on, and one of those baggy t-shirts that probably cost way too much money for what it is. He looks good.

“Do you remember Mark?” Jack asks, voice a soft murmur in the library, but Felix is used to the quiet, gentle tones. For as obnoxiously loud Jack is when he gets excited, he can be very soft in one-on-one conversations. Felix tilts his head slightly, thinking for a moment.

“Yeah, the kid at the football game, the one who was really awkward but chill?” Felix recalls, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk and look straight at Jack. “Why?”

“Oh, well, I’ve been spending a lot more time with him,” Jack answers, blushing at the direct question as his mind immediately rushes to all the other answers. Mark is hot now. Mark has beautiful eyes when he finally looks at you. Mark’s voice is deeper if, and when, he gifts you with a few words. Mark likes to feed the ducks. Mark gets scared to talk. Mark’s hand is warm and calloused, but his fingers curl around Jack’s with such a weak timidity. Felix raises a brow, immediately noticing the breathiness of the tone and the blush on his cheeks.

“Doing what?” he asks, the corners of his lips curling up into a teasing smirk. Jack huffs and shifts in his seat.

“We’re project partners, and he’s honestly… He’s changed a lot,” Jack says. Felix grins, knowing all the tells. After all, he was on the receiving end of them for a while.

“He’s hot now,” the Swede supplies readily. Jack flushes and nods, hands curling into his lap to tug at his fingers. He always got like this with Felix. Perhaps it was because he could let his guard down around him. Jack doesn’t have to be confident and talkative around him, like he does with the rest of the world. Felix doesn’t need him to be anything but himself, and that’s a relief.

“He… He’s ripped, and he’s got a nice jawline, and his cheekbones are pretty, and his hair is longer. That’s all great, but he… I like him a lot. He’s just… he’s got some issues,” Jack murmurs, toying with his fingers. Felix nods, becoming serious again.

“Talk to me,” he says in the voice he always used as they sat together, curled up in corners, Jack resting against his chest, nose tucked into the crook of his neck, tears staining Felix’s shirt as Sean cried over his family. Jack looks down and takes a deep breath.

“I… He’s on the spectrum for sure, and he… He’s really struggling. He’s become a selective-mute, and he doesn’t make eye contact, and he gets scared when people are too loud, or there’s too many. If there’s too much of anything, he gets panic attacks, and he doesn’t hang out with Ethan and Amy anymore. When I see him in the halls, he just seems so small and weak, and I desperately want to help him. I talk to him while we work, and he laughs at my stupid jokes, and sometimes he talks to me, and his voice is so broken and tired, but on those rare moments, he looks at me and talks I want to give him everything. He’s so… It hurts so bad to see him so miserable, and just getting him to smile makes me so fucking happy,” Jack rambles, trying to explain himself. Felix listens with an impassive expression, nodding slightly and twirling a pen between his fingers.

“You love him, Jack,” he decides, a small smile gracing his lips.

“But we don’t… He’s definitely not ready for anything like that,” Jack whines, pushing his hair back.

“Maybe not, but you really like him. Maybe start dropping hints?” Felix suggests. Jack groans.

“But it’s already really gay! I don’t know how to drop hints when our friendship itself is super gay,” Jack exclaims, “We hold hands, we hug, we talk about really intimate shit.”

“It’s currently a very close, intense friendship, and you know you have feelings for him. For all you know, he could be thinking the exact same things, in reverse,” Felix reasons. Jack rubs his face and takes a deep breath.

“I like him so much,” he whispers into the silence. 

“Then show him that, Jack. Show him and be kind to him. From how you talk about him, he’s clearly very fragile. Don’t spring anything intense on him, but just tiny things, beyond hand-holding. Maybe those really cute nuzzles you do?” Felix offers, and Sean flushes.

‘Christ, getting advice from my ex is simultaneously extremely helpful and extremely weird,” he groans, giving Felix a soft, appreciative smile though as he calms down. Felix chuckles.

“I gotta say, as an expert on what you’re like in a relationship, the nuzzles are really cute during hugs.”

“But that’s bottom-energy. I’m more… top-energy with Mark,” Jack argues.

“Well then, nuzzle the top of his head, instead of under his chin,” Felix answers in such a matter-of-fact tone that Jack laughs.

“Fuck Felix, you are… Literally gonna decide tops and bottoms by how they fucking… Christ. I hate that you’re kinda right,” he giggles. Felix grins and the two continue to chat, conversation ebbing and flowing in the never-ending, inevitable cycle of waves against the shore and wind through trees. However, the library closes earlier on Sundays, so Jack has to get off eventually, saying his goodbyes, promising “same time next week,” and hurrying back home. He slips into the apartment, a content smile on his lips and head held high.

“Oi, Sean, where’ve you been?!” his mother hollers from the kitchen, where she’s working through a few bills.

“I went out with my project partner, to the library,” Jack answers back. Yes, that answer is technically correct. He did indeed go out with Mark. He did indeed go to the library. Not necessarily together.

“Come in here!” Shannon calls, and Sean huffs, making his way into the small kitchen. She’s seated at the table, glasses low on her nose as she looks up at Sean.

“You’ve been going out every Sunday. Sundays are supposed to be the time we all spend together,” she says. Sean shrugs.

“It’s my only free day to work on the projects.”

“Don’t you work on them during school?”

“There’s other stuff to do in school, like the labs, or other schoolwork,” he retorts. She frowns.

“You aren’t allowed to be going out every Sunday. Our family is hardly together, and we can at least try to have one day,” she states, words a firm line etched deep into the sand. Sean furrows his brows and opens his mouth to say something back.

“I don’t want to hear it,” his mom interrupts before he can retort her. Sean scowls and ducks his head. Why is it always him? He already does so much, takes care of the siblings, goes to work, has good grades. Why him?

“Ma, that isn’t fair! Sean needs time to himself too! He goes to school and works every day, just like you guys. Why can’t he spend his one off-day doing what he wants to do with his friends?” Simon asks as he makes his way into the kitchen, getting a glass and filling it up at the sink. Shannon’s nostrils flare, and both boys wince.

“I said I didn’t want to hear it from Sean, and I certainly don’t want to hear it from you! This is a conversation between Sean and me. You are not a part of this, especially with your recent grades!” She exclaims. Simon ducks his head, glaring at the floor.

“Sorry, Ma,” he immediately apologizes.

“You know what? Get your schoolwork and come in here. For that, you can sit in here and study where I can see you,” she orders. Simon nods and hurries out, at least escaping for the moment.

“What about late Sunday? I can do Sunday afternoons with the family after church, then go study and work after dinner? And, not every Sunday. Just… Ma, it’s my only free day,” Sean pleads, desperately bargaining for a scrap. Shannon sighs softly and looks at her son.

“Sean, it feels like I never see you anymore. It’s like a stranger is living in the house. I miss talking with my son,” she says softly. Sean nods in understanding but pushes forward.

“Please, Ma, at least Sunday nights, and I’ll work to make sure it’s only when absolutely necessary,” Sean asks. She smiles softly and lifts her arms, offering a hug. Sean goes over and hugs her as she talks.

“I’m sorry, Sean. You’re an amazing kid, and your Pa and I are so proud of you. Yes, that sounds good. Sunday evenings, every once in awhile,” she decides, pulling back and holding his shoulders as she looks him over once.

“Thank you, Ma,” Sean says happily.

“Not this next Sunday, though. Let’s start this off right,” she adds, a bit of warning in her tone. Sean laughs and nods.

“Okay, Ma. I’ll make sure Simon gets in here, then check on the others,” he says, standing up entirely and adjusting his bag on his shoulders. She smiles with relief that crinkles the corners of her eyes and relaxes the tenseness in her shoulders.

“That would be wonderful, thank you, Sean.”


	50. Chapter 50

Jack rolls over on the couch, fidgeting for a moment before fixing his blanket and curling up around his laptop. It wobbles on its side for a few moments before falling still, and Jack clicks the email notification popping up. It’s Mark, nervous, beautiful, sweet Mark. His email is short this time, straight to the point.

Subject: Chill

Do you want to go to the park again tomorrow?

Thanks,

Mark

Jack’s lips curl into a smile, speaking of wistful, drifting thoughts and wilted, drooping regret. He sighs and reads over it one more time before composing his response.

Re: Chill

Can’t. My parents want me to spend time with the family on Sundays.

Sorry,

Jack

The cursor blinks at him with a ticking impatience as he circles his mouse around the send button. He chews on his lip and watches the cursor for a moment, delaying the inevitable. He presses the button and closes the website, going back to his textbook and notes with a sigh. The textbook pages flutter as he turns them, teasingly reminiscent of the flap of startled birds on the water as the teenagers break onto the shoreline of the pond from the woods. Jack lets the laptop slide to the side, and he closes it with a click, cutting off the lure to Mark. He stands and makes his way to the kitchen table to work, leaving the laptop behind.

Mark sits at his desk, rocking in his chair and blinking a bit as he waits for a reply. He stills and stares at the computer screen with an unblinking gaze, perfectly patient, yet yearning for an answer. The clock turns another minute, and Mark presses his clicker a few times. He jerks at the notification sound, shaking his head sharply before leaning forward, hastily clicking into the response. The boy’s eyes read over it several times, and he slumps back. His hair droops into his eyes, deflated like the hope in his mind.

He shouldn’t have reached out.

He shouldn’t have pressed his luck.

Mark shuts down the computer and stands, getting ready for his therapy appointment. He shoves his glasses into their case and fluffs his hair before making his way downstairs. His mom is in the kitchen, and she looks as Mark enters, her burgundy lips curling into a smile.

“Ready kiddo?”

Mark nods.

“Alright, go on ahead to the car, I’m just gonna get some water,” she says, grabbing a water bottle and beginning to unscrew it. Mark goes to the garage, climbing into the passenger seat. He buckles up and stares at the dashboard, tracing the tiny cracks in the leather with his eyes. For the right half of the dashboard, there are four thousand small islands in the leather. He likes to count things. It calms him down, and it’s right. Everything needs to be accounted for. Every little island, every crack, and diversion in the leather. His mom climbs in and starts up the car, jerking Mark out of his counting daze.

“Do you think it’ll be a long one today? I’ve got to grab some groceries,” she asks as she pulls out of the driveway, making her way out of the neighborhood—Mark fiddles with his fingers and nods.

“Do you… Do you at least talk with Mr. Josh?” she questions, voice pushing against the boundaries of their relationship to try and get closer to her son. Mark curls his shoulders in, feeling the borders press around him. He shrugs, gives a “so-so” gesture with his hand, and turns his head away, looking out the window. The sigh from his mother makes him squeeze his eyes shut. The sigh is soaked with confusion and worry, heavy and gross like breathing with pneumonia. Mark is a sickness. He plagues his family, embedded in the system, leaving them tired and weak. 

The boy rests his hand against the window and presses his clicker. No doubt, Jack thinks the same thing. He’s just too polite to say that. After Mark’s weirdness at the park last week with the food truck, Jack has seemed normal. Mark isn’t good at reading body language, though. He wants Jack to stay normal. Jack is probably just acting, though. Mark knows it was weird. He knows. He understands that Jack doesn’t want to hang out with him any more than he has to. But it hurts. The rejections and assumptions curl around him, pressing like barbwire at his throat. His eyes burn with his knowledge. He closes them and holds his throat, forcing himself to swallow. He got over Amy and Ethan. He can get over Jack if he has too.

His mother stays quiet during the drive, and she pulls in, parking and unlocking the doors. She leans over and holds her son’s head, pressing a kiss to his temple before attempting to smooth out the raucous curls. Mark pulls away and climbs out, taking a deep breath before forging ahead into the building. He keeps his gaze down but lifts his hand in the direction of the receptionist.

“Hey Mark, good to see you,” she greets, before typing a few things into her computer. Mark sits down and stares at the floor, counting the scuff marks and scratches. The flooring is at least ten years old, probably more. It’s been the same since Mark’s first visit. The waiting room is empty right now, but Mark knows an older woman will walk into the building in a few moments. She has a weekly visit with Mr. Josh’s assistant. She likes to give Mark caramel candies and those old, sugary mints that he sucks on for a moment before crushing between his teeth. No doubt, they’re ancient and expired, but he doesn’t care. She smiles when she gives them to him, and Mark likes to smile back. Sometimes, he even looks her in the eyes. It’s good practice. Mr. Josh is always proud of Mark when he comes into the session with candy.

The door opens with a soft ding behind him, but the entrance to the back opens up simultaneously. Mr. Josh leans out, looking around.

“Mark? Come on back,” he says, smiling at the boy. Mark shuffles to a standing position and mopes forward, passing Mr. Josh and navigating through the halls with ease. He enters the room and sits down on the couch, grabbing the fidget spinner immediately. The psychiatrist takes a seat in the usual chair, leaning back and crossing a leg.

“So, has school been good the past week?” the man asks. Mark shrugs and leans back on the couch. He closes his eyes and spins the toy. The whir fills his head for a moment, and he takes a deep breath.

“It was good. I… Last Sunday, I went to the park with Jack. We got sandwiches at a food truck, and we fed the ducks, and we-” Mark stops as the spinner dies out. He sets it back to its rapid rotation, “we looked over the pond some, and I rested my head on his shoulder. He didn’t pull away.”

“That’s great! It’s a huge step forward, and very brave,” Mr. Josh praises, jotting something down. “How do you want the relationship to progress from here?” he queries, and Mark scowls, starting his spinner.

“He said he can’t hang out on Sundays anymore. He needs to be with his family.”

A tired bitterness drips through the words, sticking into his heart and mind and freezing his thoughts on the past, caught in amber.

“Why the tone?”

“He’s just avoiding me like they did.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because everyone tries to avoid me.”

There’s a slight pause as the psychiatrist thinks of what to say. He adjusts his tie and takes off his glasses, brows furrowed.

“Is it right to place those assumptions on Jack?”

“I can’t read him. All I ever do is assume.”

“Have you asked?”

Mark huffs and stops the spinner, rocking it back and forth for a moment before letting it fly again.

“It happened today. What do I even ask? ‘Hey, Jack, I can’t tell if you’re being a bastard or not, could you just clear that up for me?’ Yeah, that’ll work,” Mark snorts. He keeps his eyes closed, watching the scene play out in his head.

“Well, let’s think about it. How can you frame the question, so it’s not useless?” Mr. Josh replies, jotting a few things down before adjusting in his seat. “Remember, we’re working on being vulnerable. Being honest.”

“It’s a dumb question, though.”

“Make it not dumb.”

“Fine,” Mark groans, sitting up. He opens his eyes and stares down at the ground, deep in thought. Silence falls for a minute, and the clock ticks gently on the wall.

“What about, ‘Hey, did I do something to make you not want to hang out with me?’ That’s good, right?” Mark proposes. Mr. Josh smiles, patient and gentle.

“But aren’t you assuming something of him? How do you know he doesn’t want to? That’s what you’re asking him about.”

“Okay… ‘Hey, do you still want to hang out when we can? Even if it’s less, or if you don’t want to at all. I’m… I’m worried-” the spinner catches on his finger and abruptly stops. Mark frowns, snapping his head sharply to the side a few times and blinking.

“What are you worried about?”

Mark restarts the toy.

“I’m worried that I did something, and you’re avoiding me or something like that.”

“Good, so the whole thing?”

“Hey Jack, do you still want to hang out when we can? Even if it’s less, or if you don’t want to at all. I’m… I’m worried that I did something, and you’re avoiding me.”

“You should write it down. It’s a lot of words,” the man prompts. Mark nods and digs for his phone, typing it in his notes. He shoves his phone back in his pocket, and then he promptly changes the subject. 

The question is still stupid.


	51. Chapter FIfty One

Mark sits at lunch, poking at the rice with his chopsticks. He’s not hungry, and even though he typically enjoys the lunch in front of him, it is unappetizing today. Jack is next to him, happily munching away at the school’s lunch for today. It’s been two weeks since Jack told him no. During school, he’s acting the same. Jack still sits in the classroom with Mark, and Mark knows it’s all part of the plan. Jack’s slowly beginning to distance himself. First, it’s no more Sundays, then it’ll be he can’t do lunch, then it’ll be he can’t be Mark’s partner for the projects, and he’ll sit somewhere else in the room. That’s how it was with Ethan and Amy. The break in the friendship was a slow split, moving like tectonic plates with creeping, inevitable power. The group split apart, hot lava and suppressed issues bubbling up to build vast mountainous barriers to keep them separated.

Jack is typing away on his computer, eating with one hand, and drafting an email with the other. It’s a quiet day. Mark takes a moment to look at Jack, taking in his profile. His bushy brows furrow deep, ear arched up in a sharp point, blue eyes glinting with the reflection of the computer, and nose curving up as he lightly bites his tongue, concentrating fiercely. He looks like a hipster elf, and Mark snorts at the thought.

“Oi, what are you laughing at?” Jack asks, turning to look at Mark with narrowed eyes and an exaggerated pout. Mark stills, not recognizing the joke in the facial expressions.

“O-oh, sorry,” he mumbles, looking back down and hastily shoving some rice into his mouth. Jack clicks his tongue and leans over.

“I’m just messing with you, silly,” he reassures, before pressing send on his email. For a long moment, Mark stares at Jack, desperately trying to read his body language and tone for clues. His cheeks are stuffed full of rice, and Jack smirks, leaning forward to poke his cheek before laughing and pulling away. Mark stares at the teenager in utter shock before swallowing his mouthful of rice. His phone buzzes in his pocket. The sound startles Mark, and he hastily sets down his chopsticks, which slide off the propped up lid. Mark frowns and repeats the action, only for it to happen again. The phone drifts from his mind, and his focus narrows. He tries several more times, the scowl on his face growing with each attempt. Jack rests a hand on his wrist, stilling the actions. Mark stares at those pale fingers as they curl around his forearm, holding him in place.

“Maybe finish your lunch up before checking the notification,” Jack proposes. He pats Mark’s wrist and pulls away, closing his laptop and going back to his own meal. Mark takes a deep breath, clearing out the frustration. He nods and begins eating again, albeit with a sense of begrudging duty to not waste the food before him. He doesn’t like the color of the situation. The dull browns and muted tones of it all. It doesn’t seem right. Not with the gentle contact. Not with the physical closeness Jack initiated. The chopsticks are so dull and plain, pale brown, almost beige wood. The desk is a gross laminate and an old and grimy brown that desperately tries to imitate wood but utterly fails. He finishes lunch and goes to the rest of his classes, phone slipping from his mind. When he gets home, he doesn’t bother unpacking his bag or anything of the sort. Mark goes straight to bed, flopping into the mattress and cocooning himself in the blankets and sheets. The teenager eventually emerges from his comfortable haven of respite, sits at his desk, turns on his computer, and goes through his notifications.

There’s an email from Jack.

Received at 12:28.

Jack was the one who sent him something during lunch. Mark smiles at the thought, reflecting on the concentration and effort pressed into every letter of the email Jack typed up. Jack spent almost all of lunch on this, even though it’s quite short. There is intention in every word, every sentence, every quip, every question.

Subject: Hangout

Hey Mark,

It’s been quite a long time since we spent some quality time together, hasn’t it? I’ve been busy, and that makes me sad because I loved spending time with you. If you’re able to do so, meet me in front of the candy shop two blocks south of the school, by the red fire hydrant. Really obscure, I know, but there’s something cool I want to do, and that location is important. Precisely at 6:30 p.m. on the dot. Don’t be late, because we’re on a tight schedule from 6:30 on. If you can do it, there’s no need to even reply. If you can’t, let me know.

Lots of love, XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO,

Jack

P.S.

This isn’t a drug deal, I swear.

Mark reads it over, then reads it over again. A breath of relief gushes from his lungs as he slumps back in his chair, grinning at the computer. What an email. It’s somehow chaotic and well-organized at the same time. It starts off so well, formal, elegant, reminiscent, and dramatic. Then it becomes earnest and matter-of-fact as Jack lays down the oddly specific directions. Mark blushes and smiles at the sign off Jack uses. Obviously, it’s a joke, but Mark can still hope. The teenager giggles at the drug deal joke. He was, in all honesty, concerned while he read it, but he trusts Jack. 

Mark laughs and pushes his chair away from his desk and into a spin, whirling around as the room turns to a delicious blur of soft color and light, sounds errant and wispy in the empty space. They can move at lightspeed again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's either going to be sixty-eight or sixty-nine chapters. I'm gunning for sixty-nine (for obvious reasons), but we're nearing the end guys 0-0


	52. Chapter 52

Mark zips up his jacket and pulls the hood over his head. After a quick pocket pat-down of phone, wallet, house keys, he slips out the door. The sun casts a golden glow over the tops of trees and buildings, turning them warm-toned and gentle. Together, they create a perfect nest for the robin egg blue sky that stretches above his head. Mark counts the streets, hurrying along. Mark breathes a sigh of relief as he reaches the old-fashioned candy shop. He checks his phone. Five minutes. The teenager ducks into the store, wandering through the brightly lit aisles, passing rainbows of sugar and varying shades and shapes of chocolate. He pauses at a bag of chocolate-covered coffee beans and tilts his head to the side. Mark smiles and grabs it off the shelf, shaking his head and bobbing it along with the gentle music as he makes his way to the register.

The lady asks something, and Mark shakes his head, trying to keep his focus and blinking a few times. He scowls and shrugs, shuffling uncomfortably. Mark lifts his hand to his throat, holding it to try and demonstrate his issue with speaking.

"Oh, umm, that's alright," she says, and Mark nods, staring resolutely down at the counter. He traces the lines with his eyes through the stunning dark wood, pushing the coffee beans forward. The lady rings up the treat and bags it up, handing it to Mark with a smile.

"There you are, thanks for stopping by!" she effuses hand Mark manages another nod, taking his bag and hurrying out. He scowls and glares down at his feet while he crosses the street to the fire hydrant. He's embarrassed with himself, ashamed for his utter inability to speak with strangers. He barely manages with his therapist and Jack. He doesn't even talk to his mother that much anymore.

"Sup chocolate eyes," Jack greets with an impish smirk. The teenager is trying to push things a bit more, sprinkle a dash of flirtation and such, just as Felix suggested. Mark blushes, shuffling his feet. He mouths a silent "hi" and waves his free hand in response. 

"Whatcha got in the bag?"

Mark brightens and steps closer, offering the paper bag to Jack, who reaches out and takes it, gently brushing his fingers against Mark's before pulling away. Mark's cheeks feel hot enough to melt the chocolate that so barely escaped his grasp.

"Oh! Chocolate! How apt," Jack beams, leaning forward and wrapping Mark in a hug. Mark lets out a strangled noise of surprise, making an excellent impression of an angry cat in a cartoon before slowly relaxing into the embrace. He tentatively lifts his arms, hugging back as he moves to rest his chin on Jack's shoulder. Jack turns and nuzzles Mark's temple, arms wrapped tight around the teen's torso, cradling him close. That only furthers the blush on Mark's face, spreading the red to tease at the tips of his ears as he tries to ignore it. Jack smirks and pulls away after a moment.

"Alright, no time to waste! We're on a tight schedule! Follow me, and I shall lead you on the most fascinating adventure!" Jack announces, intertwining their hands and gently tugging Mark along. As they walk, Mark pulls out his phone. He hurriedly types something before nudging Jack and holding the phone up for him. In the notes app, Mark had written a question.

"How did you manage this on a Friday?" is written out with a few hasty typos. Jack smiles, the corners of his eyes wrinkling as he looks at Mark with loving understanding.

"Can you say 'How' for me? Then, I'll answer the question," he prompts as he gives Mark's hand a reassuring squeeze. The teenager's eyes snap to meet bright blue, wide and frightened. Jack waits patiently and keeps that smile on his face, trying to reassure the beautiful boy next to him. Mark swallows, and Jack watches his Adam's apple bob, attempting to push down the trepidation building up.

"H… How?" Mark forces out, immediately pressing the button on his clicker and closing his eyes. Jack smiles and squeezes Mark's hand a little tighter, wanting to keep his friend grounded.

"Well, I talked with Amy, and I managed to persuade her to let me off early. I asked her yesterday, and that's why I sent the email asking you at lunch. I was hoping you would check it right then, but things were bothering you, so that's why I told you to wait on it. I actually…" and Jack continued to talk, shoving his brain into gear and starting up his motormouth to try and keep Mark with him. He'd seen how bad Mark's attacks could get, and Jack never wants that to happen with him. After a few minutes, Jack stops at a chain-link fence that's blocking off a wooded area.

"Alright, so we're gonna slip through here, then trek through the woods for a bit, then we'll be at this super awesome place and-"

"Illegal," Mark croaks out, frowning and pointing to the big 'No Trespassing' sign a few yards away. Jack grins.

"I never saw a sign about trespassing, did you see a sign about trespassing? We just wanted to get away from the crowds," Jack replies, lips curling into a knowing smirk as mischief dances in the glint of his eyes. Mark stares at him for a long moment before scowling and lightly shoving Jack.

"Oi!" Jack exclaims as he falls back against this fence, turning to cast a playful glare at Mark, but the teenager is already crawling through the loose gap by the metal upright. Jack's glare breaks into a grin, and he follows behind, wiggling through the opening and popping up on the other side.

"Right! Let's get cracking!" he exclaims, marching straight into the woods. Mark raises a brow and shoves his hands into his pockets, walking behind the smaller teenager. He makes a genuine effort to look around at the forest as they push their way through, but his focus keeps drifting back to Jack, watching the tiny hop he adds when he's happy. There's also the pretty way he lifts his arms, gingerly pushing away branches, before letting them fall gracefully back to his sides. Then, there's how he sways his hips and curves his back once he reminds himself about his posture. Mark blushes and tries to avert his gaze, but he can't help himself. Jack is beautiful. His beauty is ethereal to Mark, captivating motions and gentle waves, like wind rustling through wheat, or plants swaying beneath water. It's so peaceful and serene, even with his bounding energy.

"Okay, so for this last part, can you close your eyes? I'll hold your hands and guide you, but I want it to be a surprise," Jack asks. Mark frowns and draws his shoulders in, ducking his gaze. He doesn't like closing his eyes. It made him overthink.

"I know it's stressful for you, but just for a few seconds? I'll talk the whole time too," Jack pleads, turning to hold both of Mark's hands with a delicate grip, piercing Mark with those bright blue eyes. Mark bites his lip, glowering at the ground before giving Jack a terse nod. He squeezes his eyes closed, and his grip immediately tightens on Jack's hands, clinging to his anchor as Jack begins to slowly walk him forward.

"So, I hope you like it, I found this spot a couple of years ago, and I like to come here to relax and clear my head. It's very peaceful for me, and I want to share it with you because I know you have a hard time clearing your own head. Okay, so you can open your eyes now," Jack says, talking quite loudly to try and drown out any other noise Mark might hear as they reach the spot.

Mark opens his eyes, freezing in shock as he takes the stunning view. They stand on a small overlook of exposed rock, looking down on a small creek that babbles beneath lush forest growth, an anomaly in dry Austin, Texas. Mark turns to look at Jack, brows bent in askance. How on earth did he find this place? Why isn't it already overrun with other people?

"It's government bought land to account for the run-off of other developments. Nobody is allowed to build here," Jack explains, eyes reveling in the peaceful sanctuary spread before them. Mark leans over and hugs Jack, this time catching the other by surprise, before he quickly recovers and hugs Mark back. The pair separate from the embrace, and Mark turns, finding a short path down from the overlook. He ambles over to the creek and takes off his socks and shoes. Mark takes a deep breath before wading in, wiggling his toes and watching the water ripple through and around his feet. The rounded pebbles and rocks making up the bed of the creek shift beneath him, and Mark shivers. He beams and turns, looking back at Jack, who's close behind him.

"Do you like it?" Jack asks as he strips off his own socks and shoes. Mark rapidly nods, rolling up his pants and wading further. He moves to a rock in the center of the stream. It rises above the water, the top part completely dry, and he sits down, smiling with contentment. The babble of the water chatters and giggles in his ears, rolling around him in camaraderie and mirth.

"I'm glad you like it. I was a bit worried about the water sounds possibly bothering you," Jack divulges as he rolls up his pants and wades in. He sits down beside Mark, having to squeeze close to fit on the stone. Mark blushes as their sides press together. He can feel Jack's hip, his knee, his elbow brushing against his arm. Jack shifts and wraps an arm around Mark, ruffling his friend's hair.

"Do you like swimming? There's a deeper hollow further downstream if you want to do that in a bit," Jack offers. Mark smiles and nods, toying with the strings of his hoodie. Yes, he does like swimming. He also likes how much Jack is touching him. It's reassuring. He leans over and rests his head on Jack's shoulder, letting out a content huff of air that brushes over Jack's neck, making him shiver.

"I always liked bodies of water. It's so calming to me," Jack says. Mark snorts with amusement and shakes his head.

"Big ones," he manages, shaking his head again. Jack tilts his head to the side, working to just barely look down at Mark from the angle.

"You don't like big bodies of water?" he asks. Mark nods, nose brushing against Jack's neck. Jack bites his lip, fingers curling through Mark's hair. He takes measured breaths, weighing the options. Bravery is heavy. The teenager tilts his head, resting his head atop Mark's and gently nuzzling at his temple. Mark's fingers curl tight around his clicker, but he doesn't press it. Jack smiles against Mark's curls, breathing in. He smells like citrus, perhaps oranges. Jack feels the muscles in Mark's face tense, and Jack tenses in response—scared Mark will pull away and embarrass him. He waits with bated breath, but nothing happens, and Jack slowly relaxes again.

Mark smiles, tucking his face into the crook of Jack's neck. The relief soaks into his bones, making him content and resolute. Jack is still here, he's still keeping Mark close, and now it's even closer. Mark revels in the closeness, moving with Jack's breath and following his heartbeat, feeling the pulse against his cheek. He's still here.


	53. Chapter 53

They decide to save the swimming hole for later. Both teenagers are tired out from the long week with little desire for anything else but the quiet company of a friend. Together, they watch the sky dim, turning a myriad of shades with streaks of pink and orange through yellow, before it all begins to mute into dusty warm tones that glimmer through the trees as the last rays of sunshine stretch over the Earth. As the night begins to weigh down the sunlight, something begins to weigh down Mark’s mind.

He has something he wants to tell Jack. It sits heavy on his tongue, pushing against the back of his teeth, itching down his throat, aching in his lungs. Mark wants to be with Jack. Mark wants to tell him how beautiful he is, how happy he makes Mark, how he turns Mark’s mind into a legible scroll of thoughts, blurring the sharp hieroglyphics and excess exclamations into the background. But he doesn’t dare.

Jack is already so brilliant, Mark doesn’t dare risk this. He already has so much with Jack, so why should he dare ask for more? He can only gain a finite amount, at risk of everything he already has. No, it is much better to wish and yearn for more with the ability to revel in what he’s got than to rip away all that he has built. But that doesn’t stop the desire. It doesn’t stop the ache in his gut, the lead on his tongue, the sharpness of his teeth whenever he thinks about the possibilities.

He pulls away once the sun dies to nothing but an ember of itself, shivering in the dim light. Jack sits up pencil straight, alert, and attentive as Mark stands. The teenager can’t help himself as he takes a moment to look over Mark, admiring his well-built frame, his broad shoulders, his muscular legs. Jack bites his lip and stands, following after Mark. They climb out of the creek and into the soft grass. Mark stares down at the ground as he shakes the water from his feet. He furrows his brows, pondering the question he’s about to ask. He takes a deep breath and lifts his head, directing it towards Jack and forcing himself to look Jack in the eyes.

“Jack,” he starts. The other looks up from his shoes, eyes wide. Jack shivers, and he’s grateful that he can pass it off with the cooling temperature, rather than the chills that shook down his spine at the suddenness of Mark saying Jack’s name.

“Come, my house?” Mark asks, grimacing as he turns away. He’s too scared to look Jack in the eye for the answer. Already, that much eye contact was hard. He saw far too much; it was too intense. The words thunder in his mind, and he snaps his head side to side a few times, hair slapping across his forehead as he struggles to fight his voice. Jack smiles and moves closer, resting a hand on Mark’s bicep. The other immediately stills, focus narrowing to the boy in front of him.

“I would love to come over,” Jack murmurs, hand rubbing over the soft hoodie Mark is wearing. He gives Mark’s arm a gentle squeeze and turns back to his shoes, sitting down to work on the socks. It’s also an excellent chance to hide the rising blush from the racing thoughts that invaded after feeling up Mark’s muscle. Mark breaks into a broad grin at the acceptance of the offer and shoves back the original question, ignoring the ache in his chest in favor of plopping down on the grass beside his friend to tug on his own socks and shoes.

When they get back, Mark walks through the house to the kitchen, digging through the fridge to find his leftovers. The teenager pulls out the shrimp puttanesca and cracks it open, setting it on the counter. Mark pauses. Does Jack like shrimp? What if he’s allergic? He turns and pulls Jack closer, grimacing as he points at the food.

“You like it?” he asks, scowling as he turns his head, clearing his throat and blinking rapidly. He hates the noise. It resonates in his head. He feels the vibrations of his own voice in his skull, and to him, it’s like nails on a chalkboard. Jack holds a gentle hand to Mark’s upper back, resting over a shoulder blade, as he leans forward and analyzes the dish.

“Pasta with shrimp basically, right?” he asks, looking to Mark for clarification. Mark gives Jack a terse nod, tugging at his hoodie strings. Jack beams.

“Looks delicious,” Jack declares, rubbing Mark’s back and smiling at his friend. It takes a moment, but Mark eventually nods and turns, getting two bowls. He fills them up with the meal and puts them in the microwave to reheat. With the time, Mark gently pulls Jack by the side of his shirt to the table, pulling out a seat and plopping him down before bustling about to get them water. Mark makes a glass with ice and a glass with no ice, setting them down at the table for Jack to pick along with silverware and napkins. He hurries back to the microwave, stirring their food before taking them to the table. He sets them down before finally taking a seat himself, smiling down at his food.

“Fuck, this smells delicious, Mark,” Jack says, smiling to his friend as he reaches over and rests a hand on Mark’s forearm. “Thank you,” he adds, making it as sincere as possible by dropping his voice to just above a whisper. It’s a low hum that just brushes against Mark, soft and soothing. It sends the boy into a heavy blush, ducking his head and shrugging.

“Like cooking,” he deflects, trying to act like this isn’t a big deal. He had made it himself, which Jack hadn’t known, but Mark didn’t know that was a big deal. Jack’s eyes widened.

“You made this?” he asks, incredulity warping his voice into shock and raising the volume to surprise. Mark jerks his head up with confusion and nods. “Mark, that’s genuinely fucking awesome. This is some grade-A level cooking, and it smells so good, and the fact that you made this is so cool. I wish I was this good at cooking. I can bake, but with actual food? I can basically scramble eggs, and that’s it,” Jack divulges, grinning at the other. Mark blushes more, and a strangle whine chokes in his throat. He wants to say it’s not a big deal, but that requires even more talking. So, Mark is forced to take the compliment, blushing heavy red and sitting still and timid beside Jack.

“You’re cute when you blush,” Jack adds as almost an after-thought, before picking up his fork and beginning to eat. The pair is quiet after that. Mark eventually picks up his own utensil to eat as well. For a while, the only sound is metal scraping against ceramic and slow chewing. The words keep rolling through Mark’s mind, tumbling about over and over again. Chocolate eyes. Holding hands. Petting through his hair. Cuddling. Cute when blushing. Is Mark reading this wrong? 

As they finish up their meal, Mark feels that feeling again. It’s scratching through his throat, and it makes his gums ache. He bites the inside of his cheek, gnawing for a moment as he deliberates. Mark stands and takes their dishes into the kitchen, rinsing them and putting them in the dishwasher. Jack takes in the cups and napkins, helping with the rapid clean up. Mark wipes off his hands with a towel, turning to face Jack and leaning back against the counter. He takes a deep breath, fighting away the rising anxiety, but it’s futile. His gut is twisting, and Mark regrets dinner now.

“Jack,” Mark starts again, because this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s not going to divert the idea; he’s not going to slip into some other question. This is the real deal. “I, I like you,” he forces before he can chicken out and cut away. Of fuck, he just said that. He actually said it. Mark squeezes his eyes closed, hands shaking as he digs his nails into his forearms. His breaths are already picking up. The words buzz in his head, thrumming in his skull and ringing in his ears. Mark shakes his head, gasping for air as he turns away. Jack is going to reject him. This is it. He ruined everything. Mark jolts at the sound of the garage door opening and does what he always does when his mom comes home. The teenager turns and runs upstairs, hiding away from the words in the kitchen so he can panic in the cruel peace of rolling loneliness. Mark hears Jack call out for him, but he ignores it, mind rattling through a million scenarios filled with regret.

Jack stares after Mark before jerking to the door to the garage, staring at it with wide eyes. Mark’s parents are home. The boy realizes that he’s still in skinny jeans and the tight-fitting shirt. He gulps and jerks his head back to the staircase that Mark sprinted up just a moment ago. His heart throbs, and he steps forward, speeding past the stairs and out the front door. Jack keeps running, mind rushing with too much information at once. Mark likes him. Mark had a panic attack. Jack should have helped. Mark’s parents were coming home, though. Jack was still wearing his school clothes. He was still Jack. He wasn’t Sean. He needed to be Sean for parents. He runs all the way back to his own apartment complex, staring up at it with those same wide, shell-shocked eyes. Too much, it’s all too much, and he’s a coward for leaving Mark, and the memory of those beautiful, brave words that Mark pushed out are tinged with panic and regret. His chest is tight, and Jack swallows down the guilt, pushing his way into the building and heading up to his own home.


	54. Chapter 54

Jack adjudicates that he hates weekends. He wipes down the dinner table as he thinks, but he has undoubtedly decided that weekends are isolating and lonely. Two entire days with no ability to see friends if they didn’t answer. Two entire days of patience and pain. Two entire days of regret. Even his family has noticed something is wrong with him. His dad had him go to confession, deftly sensing that something was dragging Jack’s mind down. His mom gave him the best cut of meat at dinner. Now, they’re giving him the most straightforward clean-up job as well. When his parents notice something is up, it means shit hit the fan because Jack is too good at lying for them to catch the usual things that fuck him up.

Saturday was the worst. He had gone into work and been forced to act happy. He had to smile at customers, and smile at Amy, and smile at the cash register, and smile at the fucking drinks. He couldn’t stop smiling because if he stopped for a second, Jack knew he would crumble. He knew the mask would fall to the ground and shatter into a million pieces because it was fragile, and it was already just barely hanging on. His cheek muscles hurt after work. Then he had to come home, and he had to keep smiling through dinner and through the evening until his family went to bed. It was only then that Jack had been able to cry. Only with the lights off, and bedroom doors closed, and the fan whirring overhead in the gloom of the tiny living room. He’d curled up on his couch and hugged his pillow close, biting his knuckles and trembling as he forced himself to stay silent. He would not let his family see him cry.

That moment had not gone to plan. The moment Jack had spent weeks, even months, dreaming of had been an utter disaster. Those innocent moments of waiting for whatever Mark was going to say had leaped into elation as those gruff words pushed past Mark’s lips. But then Mark had begun panicking. He’d clawed at his own arms. He’d gagged on his own breath. Jack had started to move forward, but then the loud garage door had begun to rumble open, and Mark had bolted away. Jack wanted to follow; he had wanted to help Mark. He should have helped Mark. But Jack had turned and run, tail tucked between legs covered in jeans that were far too tight for the situation. He couldn’t present himself to Mark’s parents like that. They would know what Jack was immediately. Jack couldn’t risk that, so he’d run. He ran home, leaving Mark behind, leaving confrontation behind, leaving that elation behind.

Then, Sunday morning, he’d had to wrap his knuckles. He’d bitten them raw the night before to muffle his crying. So, Jack had to start a fresh load of laundry and wash his sheets with blood and tears sprinkled over them in painful memories of the night before. Then, he’d had to act normal again.

His parents immediately saw through him, giving him a bit more of the breakfast share, letting him take a few more minutes to get ready. They didn’t reprimand him for taking a longer shower than he was supposed to. They didn’t get onto him for spilling the milk all over the counter. They’d all left for church, walking through the streets in their Sunday best and smiling at the few others out on the beautiful morning. The church was close by, just a few blocks away, so they always walked. They hadn’t gotten onto him for lagging behind either. When he didn’t sing the hymns, they stayed quiet, and when he closed his eyes and dropped his head back during the priest’s sermon, they didn’t say a word. Only as the service wrapped up did his father speak up. It’d been quick.

“Go to confession today,” in his quiet, firm tone. He’d clapped Sean on the shoulder before walking out with the family to head over to the other building for coffee hour. Jack had waited a few minutes in line before sitting down with the priest. Then, he’d gone on a long-winded story about some test failure and not being able to keep up with that class, and he was always so tired, and he felt so guilty for not studying. It was an utter lie, and he was glad for the barrier between him and the priest. It made lying so much easier.

Jack had gone home and completed his homework. His family had actually left him alone for once for the afternoon, and Jack finished earlier than usual. He spent the extra two hours of time staring up at the ceiling, replaying that moment over and over again. When dinner had rolled around, Jack got the best portions of everything, and then this easy clean-up. Fuck, he hated weekends.

The next morning, Jack wrapped his knuckles again, quietly wincing as he dabbed the torn skin with alcohol before tenderly covering it tightly. He made his way to school and changed into his skinny jeans, and everything felt wrong. He still hadn’t seen Mark. That itch to fix things, to check up on Mark was burning. So, Jack went looking for him. He begins to scour the halls, searching for that curling mop of ebony hair and that slump of broad shoulders. But, to no avail. When the bell sounds, Jack hurries off to class, anxiety and desperation ringing in his chest with the last echoes of the bell as he rushes to get to Mark.

Mark isn’t there. He isn’t in class. He isn’t in his seat. He isn’t in the back. Jack waits in his chair, eyes glued to the doorway, but the tardy bell rings, and Mark is nowhere to be seen. Jack watches the entire period, glancing up from his work far too often, and he gets nothing done. His mind is on Mark.

Lunch is much the same. Jack sits down in the room with a forlorn gaze to Mark’s empty seat. The teenager slumps down and digs out his phone, shooting an email to Mark, asking where he is. He devours his food before sitting in silence. Jack still has fifteen minutes left, and he can’t take it. There’s no quiet breathing next to him, no shuffling feet. There’s just the clacking of the teacher’s keyboard, and Jack can’t do it. He shoulders his bag, tosses away his trash, and rushes out to wander the halls. The desperation only grows more substantial, a dismal regret in his gaze as he stares down the hallways, wishing for only one thing. He wants to make things right, and that desperation is cutting deep. Jack wishes he could get to Mark, get to his friend so that he can finally take out the painful blade and wrap it in apologies and reassurances. He wishes he could get to Mark and fix the wounds between them.


	55. Chapter 55

Jack doesn't know how he got here, but he winds up at the other end of the school in the school's arts section. He wanders the circular loop of classrooms, peering into rooms filled with paints, easels, woodshop, welding, a kitchen, a computer lab. Jack tilts his head to the side and steps in, looking around. There's a kid in the corner, intently focused on his work, and Jack freezes. It's Ethan.

"Hey, Ethan!" Jack greets, drawing up that mask of a smile and walking over to the guy. The smaller teenager jerks up, looking over with wide eyes of surprise before he grins.

"Jack! It's great to see you!"

"Same, bro. Wish we had some classes together."

"Yes, yes, gosh, totally. I've got one with Mark later, but nothing with you. Totally sucks," Ethan hums thoughtfully, eventually turning back to the computer.

"What are you working on?" Jack asks, pulling out the seat beside Ethan and plopping down. He leans over and peers at the photo with curiosity.

"Photo I'm editing. I'm hoping it's the one I can use for the art competition," Ethan answers amicably. Jack grins.

"I didn't know you were into photography!" he exclaims, scooting closer.

"Yeah, I really love it. I've been doing it for quite a while now, and I think I'm really starting to get the hang of it. I hope I can win this year."

"I would offer advice, but I know jack-shit about art, so I'm gonna just say that I have the utmost faith in your abilities and that it's already so awesome, and I would give it first place in a heartbeat."

Ethan smiles, "Thanks, dude," he says, and the two are silent for a moment. Ethan is meticulously adding in highlights by hand, and Jack is watching with fascination. The smaller one turns after a moment and looks at Jack. He stares at him, and Jack stares back, raising a brow.

"We should do a photoshoot."

"What?" Jack asks, shocked.

"A photoshoot. You have a good face for an idea I've got," Ethan repeats, divulging a bit more information. Jack blushes.

"I dunno, I know literally nothing about this stuff."

"You should do it. I can get you off of work early with Amy, and we can go during the golden hour. There's this pond that I like shooting at. You'd like it. It's fun."

"Don't I need to like… know how to model or something?"

"No, I do all the work. You just stand there and do whatever feels natural. You'll probably feel a bit uncomfortable at first, but it's quite easy."

Jack chews on his bottom lip and glances over at the door. "What do you do with the pictures?"

"Well, depending on what type of shots I get, I turn them into portraits that I can send you, or if they're dramatic or something, I might use them in my art portfolio. I'll bring an outfit for you as well, so don't worry about that."

"An outfit?"

"Yeah. It has to work well with the colors of the area. There's a lot of color theory involved, and I don't want to bore you with it. But yes, I'll bring you an outfit. Don't worry, it's nothing crazy. Just a shirt and some jeans that work right. It's not a costume or anything; it's just normal clothes," Ethan answers, excitement growing in his gaze the more he talks about the proposal.

"Umm…"

"I can swing by on Friday. I'll convince Amy to let you off early, for the same pay. I promise. She and I are like this," Ethan crosses his middle and pointer fingers. Jack leans back in his seat and stares down at the ground.

"Sure, for the same pay, why the fuck not?" Jack snorts, shrugging and looking up to grin at Ethan.

"Awesome! That's so awesome! Oh my gosh, I love working with new people! You get to see them as genuine. Older models know how to hold themselves and stuff to look good, but they also know how to hold their faces as well. That's really frustrating for emotive stuff. Don't worry, you'll still look good, but just… you're fresh meat," Ethan giggles. Jack sticks his tongue out and leans over, poking Ethan in the side.

"Oi! I'm already bloody regretting this! I ain't fresh meat!" he defends with indignance. Ethan just cackles and focuses back on his work.

Jack tilts his head to the side and watches, but his mind drifts back to Mark. He still has no clue where the guy is, and Jack sorely misses him. What happened after he left? Is Mark okay? Did he calm down from his panic attack? Jack lifts his hand and bites down on the knuckles without even realizing it until he tastes fabric and feels it grate against his teeth. Jack jerks his hand back and huffs, glaring down at the wrapping. He needs to break that habit. He sighs and leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He counts ceiling tiles for the rest of the lunch, multiplying the corners, and then subtracting lights and vents. It's a successful endeavor for wasting time and brainpower, and the bell startles him from his counting stupor. Jack jerks upright to see Ethan powering down the computer and standing.

"See you Friday, Jack. I'm super excited," the boy says, patting Jack on the shoulder before hurrying out with his bag slung over his shoulder. Jack watches Ethan leave as he blinks a few times stupidly. He brings himself back to the present and takes a deep breath, shouldering his back, fixing his chair back in place, and heading out of the room to his next class.

Mark is still nowhere to be found.


	56. Chapter 56

The cafe is quiet at the moment. Just two customers over in the corner, chatting quietly as they sit closer together than regular friends. They've been coming in regularly these days, and Jack and Amy have a bet on who's gonna ask the other out first. Jack thinks the girl is going to ask out the guy because she's talkative and assertive. Amy believes the guy is going to ask out the girl because he is absolutely enamored with her and is always staring at her with such a love-filled gaze that makes Jack and Amy laugh and force themselves to turn away. The two are cute.

But today, Jack isn't looking at them. He's scrolling through his emails, gnawing at his lip. He's chewing on raw skin at this point, and the tang of iron fills his taste buds whenever he bites through the few tiny layers of cells that keep regrowing to try and stop the blood in vain. The soft lo-fi music Amy plays through the speakers makes the cafe's warm ambiance comfortable, and it usually soothes Jack. Still, today, it only sets him at the edge.

He hasn't been able to talk to Mark since last Friday. Mark has been in class, but he refuses to speak with Jack there, and he’s dodging him at lunch. It's currently Thursday, and soon, an entire week will have passed since the disaster. Every day gnaws into Jack's gut, filling him with guilt that rolls and curdles in his stomach.

"Jesus Jack, you've been watching that thing for the past fifteen minutes," Amy groans as she passes by him again, restocking the few food items that are beginning to diminish.

"Sorry, sorry, do you need help with anything?" Jack asks, tearings his eyes from the screen to look over at Amy.

"No, nothing is happening right now, but seriously, you are being ridiculous. What's eating you?" Amy asks, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the counter.

"So… Candy confessed that he likes me," Jack mumbles, grim gaze set on the counter by his computer. Amy perks up, head snapping up, and eyes brightening.

"Hey, that's great! You s-" she stops, taking in Jack's mood and thinking for a moment, working through the confusing signals. "So… what's wrong?" she eventually asks. Jack sighs and rubs his face. He turns to lean his butt back against the counter, crossing his arms.

"He's been avoiding me for the past week. The few times we actually are forced to see each other, he isn't even looking at me. Like, he never talked much, but now he hardly comes near me beyond what's required."

"Oh…"

"And I just want to help him. I don't give a damn about him being embarrassed or scared of how I feel. I just want to make him happy and keep him safe. He's so important to me. If he regrets what he said, that's- that's fine, and I'll deal with it, but I just want to talk to him and make sure he's doing alright," Jack divulges, voice a quiet murmur of dejection and defeat.

"I… I obviously don't know who it is, but… but I can relate. God, you're such a better person than I am," Amy says before letting out a weak laugh. She forces herself to keep up the smile, but there's guilt growing in her eyes. This happened with Mark. He hid himself away, rejecting her, and she'd given up. She'd rejected him back, even when Mark was suffering. Fuck. She swallows down the growing lump in her throat, biting her lip. Jack has a chance here. Amy knows what he needs to do because it's what she didn't do.

"It's amazing that you're worried about him so much, it's good, it's really good. You need to find him. You need to stop him from leaving, take him somewhere private, and set him down. You gotta just make him listen. You gotta just tell him how much you care for him and how much you're worried about him. You need to tell him how it doesn't matter that he's ghosting you, and it doesn't matter that he said whatever he said. You need to tell him none of that matters, and that you care for him, and he's so fucking important to you, and that you aren't going to give up on this relationship because he matters so much, and he's worth so fucking much," Amy says. 

She looks down and forces herself to pick up the notepad and pen on the counter, trying to hide her shaking hands. This is what she should have done with Mark. Fuck, she should have done it over and over again with Mark, if that's what it took. Mark struggled so much, and Amy just gave up on him so quickly. All it took was a little distance, and she left him. She turns and hurries to the back room, dabbing at the tears that are welling up, trying not to ruin her eyeliner. 

"Thanks," he mumbles to the air because Jack didn't notice. He'd been too focused on the ground and his thoughts of Mark. Jack chews on his lip, and warm, wet iron fills his mouth. He sighs at the pain and dabs at it with his fingers, staring at the bright red staining his skin. He desperately needs to talk to Mark. Jack turns back to his computer and closes it with a click, shoving it back into his bag. He begins to formulate a plan, going over Mark's schedule and figuring out when to jump him. He'll need time. He also needs some privacy. So, Jack decides the best time to talk to Mark is after school tomorrow. He'll catch Mark before the kid can leave, and pull him to the side, and speak to him then. Jack carefully cleans his lip and tries to keep his smile from tearing it apart again. He's got a plan.


	57. Chapter 57

Jack packs up all his materials five minutes before the final bell of the day, leg jogging under the table as he stares at the clock. The situation reminds him of practically every teen movie in existence. The last day of school before summer, watching the seconds tick away on the clock, sprinting out as the final bell rings.

Jack does precisely that. His feet pound against the carpet, jogging down the stairs a bit faster than is safe, and sprinting out the doors, only to wait by the flagpole, watching the mass of students pour out moments later. Mark was wearing a red hoodie this morning, so Jack keeps a lookout for red. His eyes dart from random red clothing items, cataloging faces before moving on to the next piece of red. Eventually, Jack spots him, head down, ambling along with his earbuds in.

“Mark! Hey, Mark! Can we talk?” Jack asks as he rushes up beside him, already taking Mark by the arm and pulling him to the side, away from the crowds. Mark stumbles after him, eyes wide. He tries to pull away, but it’s a half-hearted attempt that’s more of a slight tug against Jack’s grip than any actual resistance. Jack is happy with himself. He caught Mark on the unawares, and now he can spill his heart out to the boy without interruption from a teacher or any prying eyes and ears.

“Okay, let’s start this conversation. First off, please don’t ghost me again. I hate not being able to talk to you. You keep turning away every time I try to talk to you in class. I haven’t seen you at lunch, and you’re dodging me in the halls too. Mark, you’re my closest friend, and I miss you. Please stop hiding. Even if you say something rude, or embarrassing, or something you think is absolutely friendship ending, don’t hide. Because I will always try to give you grace and be kind, and still love you, because you’re an amazing person. With that out of the way, let’s get onto the second thing. I like you too. I really, really like you. You’re handsome and sweet and gentle. You are so fucking smart, and I love having you as my partner, for schoolwork, and everything else. I like you back. I don’t care about your concerns. I know you think bad about yourself, but I couldn’t care less. I think you’re fucking brilliant, and it’s okay to be scared of talking. It’s okay to be scared to look people in the eye, and it’s okay to get panic attacks when you’re overwhelmed. I’ve seen you struggling with this for years. That football game. The NASA trip. You’re fighting a hard battle, and I want to be there for you. I want to help you in any way I can and be that support for you. As long as you keep fighting to get a good as you can be, I want to be there because you deserve it, and I like you so goddamn much,” Jack spills out, feeling the weight lifting from his chest and the stabbing pain of guilt slowly leaving him. 

He gently takes hold of Mark’s forearms, stepping closer to the boy and trying to look into Mark’s eyes. Mark is craning his head down and to the side, but Jack feels his heart slow back to normal at the glimpse of that warm cocoa that he drinks in every chance he gets. It warms up his gut, leaving him sated and happy for the moment, relief seeping through his bones.

Mark pulls away, taking a few stuttering steps backward. The grass crunches beneath his feet, and Jack lets his hands fall, curling them into fists. He watches Mark’s gaze at it darts up to meet his own before the teenager turns and hurries away, hands shoved deep into hoodie pockets. Jack watches long after he disappears from sight before he’s startled from his stupor by some boys starting to play catch with a football. His blue eyes dart around before checking his watch. With a curse, Jack sprints off to get to work on time.

“You look like shit,” Amy says matter-of-factly as she makes up the drinks for the first round of after-school coffee addicts. Jack sticks out his tongue and pokes her in the side on his way into the back room, where he pulls on the hat and apron. He tugs up the sleeves of his shirt and washes up, watching the water trickle over the dips and curves of his hands with an absent gaze for longer than he wants to admit. When Jack finally comes back out of the room, Amy immediately shoves him several receipts for orders to fill. For the next hour, Jack doesn’t have time to think. He works his ass off in the fight to keep up with the never-ending flow of coffee orders. Only after the lull does Amy turn and pull him into the back room.

“What’s up? Why were you late?” she asks, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall. Jack sighs and looks down. Meeting those brown eyes hurts too much right now.

“I talked to Candy, and I ruined everything. I just told him everything and how much I like him, and he just left. He pulled away and hurried off, and now- just fuck.”

“Hey, whoa, whoa, don’t go jumping to conclusions. You can’t be positive about what was going on in his head. You said it yourself that he doesn’t talk much. Maybe he just needs time to process everything,” Amy murmurs.

“Mark left me again!” Jack snaps.

They both freeze, the realization settling in the air in an oppressive cloud that chokes up Jack’s lungs as the name rings in the air. He just spilled Mark’s name to Amy, the girl with some sort of bad blood with Mark. He has divulged so much to Amy, about Mark, so much personal shit.

Amy stares at Jack for a long moment, heart twisting. She swallows and nods as the name hits her again and again. It’s Mark. Mark doesn’t talk anymore. Mark isn’t anywhere close to happy anymore. She nods again, trying to keep it together as guilt slams into her with eighteen wheels and a blaring honk.

“Go take their orders,” she says, hearing the door ring. Jack turns and hurries out, brushing past the teenager in oppressive, painful silence. Amy tilts her head back against the wall, and it’s all too much for the moment. She closes her eyes and breathes in a shuddering breath, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes and slide down her cheeks. Amy left Mark, and now Mark is so much worse. She forces her eyes open and stares at the ceiling with an empty gaze. Fuck, she needs to talk to Mark.


	58. Chapter 58

Mark stumbles down the sidewalk, eyes wide as he fiddles with his phone, tapping through apps and files before pressing the call button. He needs to talk with someone who knows him. He needs advice. He doesn’t know what to do about Jack. Jack is getting close. Everyone close to him leaves. Just like Tom. Amy. Ethan. Mark is going to mess this up, and Jack is going to leave him again.

The phone rings, and Mark counts. One. He hopes it’s picked up. Two. He desperately needs this to get picked up. Three. Mark has no clue how to handle this. Four. He doesn’t want to push Jack away. Five. He’s shoving Jack away, though. Mark pulls the phone from his ear, sighing as the phone clicks, knowing it goes to voicemail halfway through the sixth ring.

“Hey Mark, what’s up?” Mr. Josh asks, voice muffled and garbled from the distance. Mark jerks and yanks the phone back to his ear.

“So last Friday, I told Jack I liked him, but then I panicked, and he left because my mom got home at the same time, and I don’t think he likes me back, and so I haven’t talked to him since last Friday, but then he pulled me to the side just now, and told me that he wishes I wouldn’t avoid him and that he really likes me back, but I’m scared of him just leaving me like everyone else. I don’t want to push him away, and I don’t want him to leave, but I don’t want him to get close because I know he’s going to leave like everyone else, and I don’t want to go back to what I was like. I was so sad, and I didn’t talk, and Jack helps me talk and oh god-” Mark lets out a strangled noise, realizing that he’s been talking this entire time. The words pound into his head, and he claws at his hair, nails digging through his scalp painfully.

“Take a deep breath for me, Mark,” Mr. Josh directs, voice quiet and assertive. Mark gasps in a breath and gags on the air as his throat constricts. “Look around. What building are you by?”

“A candy shop,” Mark whispers, eyes widening as he realizes where he is. He swallows, and tears blur the view.

“What color is the sign?”

“Blue,” Mark says, rubbing his eyes and sniffling. He blinks and snaps his head, shaking aside the words in his mind and trying to focus. 

“Good, good. You did great calming down. I’m so proud of you, Mark. It takes a lot of bravery to tell someone how you feel, and you did it. You told him the truth, and that takes strength. I’m proud of you for talking just now. That was amazing. I haven’t heard you talk like that since you were little. So let’s figure this out. I know you’re scared that Jack’s going to leave. You have a right to be. It’s happened to you more than it should. Things have gone bad in the past with Tom, Amy, and Ethan, but you can’t let that sour what you have with Jack. Jack is still here for you, and he promises he’ll be there. You have to trust people, Mark. Even when that trust gets broken, you have to keep trusting others. It’s the only way to live happily. Nothing comes without risk, and you’ve had bad things happen to you a lot, and you’re scared to put your neck out there again, but you have to take that leap of faith.”

Mark closes his eyes and nods, whispering out a quick “yes” before hanging up. He drags his nails over his scalp again, chewing on his cheek. He doesn’t know if he can do this. Mark isn’t good at reading people. He never will be good at it. His brain doesn’t work like that. Mark has no way of knowing if Jack is genuine or not. Jack could be blatantly lying, and Mark wouldn’t be able to recognize it.

But Jack has been there for him. Jack doesn’t act weirded out by Mark. Jack doesn’t talk bad about Mark to others. Jack isn’t frustrated with Mark over his dumb shit. The other boy has seen Mark at his worst. He’s seen Mark passed out on the floor in the middle of NASA from a panic attack. Jack doesn’t care. Jack is here, even with all of that. Mark is atrocious at reading people’s body language and words, but he knows actions. Actions speak louder than words to Mark because Mark can’t read people’s words for shit. Jack’s actions are proof enough, aren’t they?

Mark has to trust. He has to trust Mr. Josh, and he has to trust himself, and he has to trust Jack. Mark doesn’t want another Tom, or another Amy, or another Ethan. He wants Jack. He wants to be close with Jack, and smile at him, and laugh at his jokes, and get lost in his ramblings. Mark wants Jack, and even though he is terrified of this being a repeat of every other close relationship in his life, Mark doesn’t know what else to do. He has no one else, and he craves Jack. Jack is the best part of his day. Mark needs Jack. He sighs and fixes his hair, rubbing his eyes.

The wind is picking up, and the cold front is rapidly moving in. Mark pulls up his hood and tucks his chin down, hurrying along. The wind pushes him back, and he can’t help but feel like this is yet another sign of the absolute disaster that this week has been. Mark is terrified of directly talking to Jack. He isn’t able to speak enough to get his points across correctly. Short sentences won’t do his feelings justice. He needs to talk to Jack, though, and Jack has always been understanding and kind. Mark picks up his pace, fighting through the wind. He’s smart enough to deal with this.

Maybe.


	59. Chapter 59

A few hours later, Ethan walks in, Amy and Jack both perking up. Jack is excited to get out of here and finally go do something different. His routine feels oppressive when Mark isn’t around to brighten him up a few times a day. He hurriedly gets out of his apron and hat, cleaning up again before coming back out front.

“Hey Jack, so I got you some clothes. It’ll be good for this weather, and I just eyeballed your sizes, but everything should fit. I’m pretty good at stuff like this,” Ethan said, setting a bag on the counter with a thunk. Jack raises a brow and takes the pack, heading to the restroom while Ethan orders a drink from Amy.

He locks the one person restroom behind himself and sets the bag on the counter, digging through it. It is immediately evident where the loud thump is coming from. Jack pulls out a pair of Dr. Martens, raising a brow at the boots. He digs further, pulling out some light blue, high-waisted skinny jeans, a button-up, and a cream sweater. He doesn’t understand why Ethan put in two tops, so maybe Ethan wanted him to pick. Jack shoved the button-up back into the bag before beginning to change. He squirms out of his current jeans and tugs on the others, hopping and cursing to get them over his hips. After finally getting the button and zipper done, Jack takes a moment to look at the jeans. A blush rises in his cheeks as he realizes how well these fit him. He looks like a woman. They’re tight at his waist, tugging it in, and he already had wide hips. These accentuate them entirely. He turns slightly, looking over his ass, and blushes further. Ethan is a god damn shopping genius. 

Jack quickly changes his shirt to the sweater and then plops down, tugging on the Dr. Martens with some effort and quiet cursing over the plethora of laces he has to deal with. He eventually stands, shoving his old clothes into the bag and looking over the outfit in the mirror. Jack blushes. He definitely needs to send a picture to Felix. That boy always wanted to see him in the tightest jeans possible, and the shoes make it look even better. When Jack walks out, Ethan and Amy look over with evident excitement on both their faces.

“Where’s the button-up?” Ethan asks, tilting his head to the side and looking over Jack.

“In the bag?”

Ethan and Amy laugh before Ethan says, “Jack, no, you put on the button-up, then put the sweater over it.”

“Oh,” Jack blushes, turning and going back into the restroom. He hurriedly changes before coming back out again, shifting with discomfort. “The collar is weird. It makes the sweater weird.”

“Let me fix that,” Ethan smiles and walks over, lifting his arms and carefully pulling out the collar of the shirt from beneath the sweater before doing the same with the cuffs at the wrists. He steps back and watches Jack with an appraising look before nodding to himself.

“I like the jeans,” Jack mumbles, fiddling with the ends of his sleeves.

“I do too. Definitely keep those. They’re hot,” Amy tosses in from where she was leaning against the counter. Jack whines and hides behind the sweater paws he made.

“Your energy totally shifted with the outfit. Are you comfortable with it?” Ethan asks, voice quiet enough to hide the question from Amy. Jack chews on his lip before mentally slapping himself and nodding.

“I like it. It’s just… so good that I’m kind of confused with what to do with myself?” Jack tries to explain, but to no avail.

“Continue to be your sexy Irish self, and we’ll be fine,” Ethan replies with a dismissive flap of his hand.

“Oi! Fuck off! I was born here, same as you!” Jack exclaims, shoving Ethan gently as the smaller guy cackles.

“Yeah, but nobody here says ‘oi,’” he chortles, shouldering his bag. He turns and grabs the two to-go drinks, handing one to Jack. “Amy made your usual, now let’s head out.”

Jack smiles, waving a sweet good-bye to Amy before following after Ethan, taking a sip. It’s his favorite, a black coffee with sweetened soy milk and a shot of espresso. He likes the sound of the boots on the pavement, listening to the heavy steps. He sounds confident. Jack fiddles with the shirts, tucking them into the front to further accentuate his hips as he walks along.

“Is there anything specific you want from me when we get there?” Jack asks, hurrying up to walk alongside Ethan. The boy is walking surprisingly fast for the big pack on his back and his shorter legs.

“Just be yourself. Don’t look at the camera. I’m going for more candid. You can talk with me while I shoot. Just look around, at the pond, the trees, other people, the sky. Literally whatever, whenever. I promise to make you look good.”

“You already did that with this outfit. It’s fucking awesome.”

“Keep it, none of it fits me anyways, and I have a budget for this stuff. The Dr. Martens are what really broke the bank, but it’s a thank-you for doing this.”

Jack blanches, “Holy shit, no. Clothes are expensive, I can’t do that to you. You should definitely return them once we’re done.”

“I didn’t see any tags on them, did you?” Ethan asks with a smirk.

“I have to pay you back. This stuff is like-”

“Jack, you don’t need to pay me back. I plan this stuff out, and it’s what I do. I had the money, so I used it. I promise that this isn’t that big of a deal. I budget out photoshoots and such, and this is totally fine,” Ethan cuts him off, turning to smile at the teenager. Jack frowns and ducks his head, watching his feet hit the pavement. They didn’t look like his own feet. No, not in these brand new shoes that cost 150 dollars. Jack is used to his thin, worn down and thrifted converse with laces fraying at the edges and a little hole at the toe if he pressed at the seam between the sole and the cloth.

“Thank you,” he eventually murmurs, giving in with a slump of his shoulders.

“Glad to give them to you. They’re awesome shoes, and they up your hotness by several points. A good shoe for winter too,” Ethan says, and they soon arrive at the small park. Jack’s eyes widen, and his fists clench as he realizes where they are. This is the park he went to with Mark. The park where Mark fed the ducks. The park where Mark was brave enough to talk to a stranger.

“So, I’m just going to have you stand by the pond, right…” Ethan jogs off, looking at the sun and trees around them before coming to a stop down the bank of the pond, “Here!” Jack quickly walks after him, careful not to step in any mud. He stands in the spot, and Ethan steps back, digging out his camera from his bag. He checks the lens and fidgets with the settings for a moment. After taking a few quick shots, Ethan messes with the settings again and then gives Jack a thumbs up.

“Awesome, we’re good to start. Maybe start out with looking up at the sky? Take a few deep breaths, relax,” Ethan says, eye to the camera as he begins to work. Jack bites his lip and looks at the camera for a moment before tilting his head upward. He closes his eyes and focuses on his breathing. The park smells nice and almost damp by the pond. He wonders if it rained over here. He remembers that it’s called petrichor, and Mark explained that it’s basically bacteria farts in the soil that create the scent. Jack smiles at the thought. It’d been wonderful to sit there with Mark, sharing a twinkie, unknowing of the journey they were about to go on, but happy to be there with someone else. Ethan is far enough that Jack can’t even hear the camera shutter as it clicks. So, he takes the time to listen to the distant music playing from someone’s speaker, reveling in the warm sun and crisp air against his face. Jack switches positions when his neck starts hurting, shifting to look down and remedy the soreness as he stares down at the pond. The teenager inches closer, finding a nice stable patch right up against the water. He stares at the murky depths, watching the muddied reflections of clouds on the surface of the pond.

Jack remembers doing this with Mark. He remembers sitting here, staring out over the water, sides pressed together, enjoying the moment. His heart aches, and a bittersweet smile tugs at his lips. Now he’s here, dressed in clothes far beyond the usual, memories wading through his mind like they waded through the creek. It’s a bit melodramatic, but Jack deserves it. He’s had a tough week, desperately trying to speak with Mark, only to be turned away at every chance. The tests, silent reviews, and mixed teams haven’t helped in the one class Jack actually has with him. Now, Mark ditched him, walking away after Jack gave him his heart on a platter. Jack looks up, frowning over at the other side of the pond, where he and Mark had sat together. It feels so long ago. He managed a solid twenty minutes with the music in the background before he eventually gets bored of looking around and turns to Ethan.

“How’s it going?”

“Good, think I got some good ones. Can you give me five more minutes? That’s really all we’ve got left of the golden hour anyway,” Ethan asks. Jack nods and goes back to staring, brows furrowed. He lifts his hand and bites at the knuckles, scowling at the cotton against his teeth as he jerks his hand away again. He’s still biting at his hand too much. It’s his nervous habit, and the situation with Mark is entirely nerve-wracking. The habit has spiraled out of control.

“Alright, that’s a wrap. I’m gonna edit up a few, and you can come to take a look at them. I should be done with some by Monday.”

“Can I come before school? Lunches are usually busy,” Jack asks, praying that Mark will start talking to him. He walks over to Ethan, fidgeting with the sleeves of the shirt again.

“Yeah, that’s cool. I’m basically in there every chance I get,” Ethan says, carefully stowing his camera away. Ethan smiles with satisfaction as he stands up. He got some great shots, and it reminds him of that photoshoot years ago with Mark. They both are hiding something beneath those smiles. There are glimpses of weariness, of sadness that gleam in the cracks of their masks. It saddens Ethan, but he hopes he can do it justice in his editing, to help Jack realize the same thing.

Ethan hasn’t talked with Mark in a long time. It’s been quick glances in the halls, with no conversation. Not since the night Mark screamed at him. The teenager still feels a bit guilty about what happened. He knows Mark is more unstable, and with how he had been acting, Ethan shouldn’t have accepted defeat so readily. Mark was struggling, and Ethan fell for the rejection so quickly. He stands and shoulders his bag, patting Jack on the shoulder.

“I’m glad we got to do this. It was a good time,” Ethan hums, personally thinking to himself that it was the catharsis they both needed. Jack clearly needed time to work through something, and the reflections of the photoshoot gave Ethan time to reflect on himself. Jack smiles and ruffles Ethan’s hair, and they walk together for a bit before going their separate ways to their homes. It was what they both needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final week of this story guys 0-0


	60. Chapter 60

Mark stands by the doorway to his teacher’s room, watching the hallways as students stream past, heading to lunch. He isn’t eating here today. No, today he will talk with Jack again. Mark spent the past weekend walking in circles around his room while talking in circles to himself. Mark keeps coming back to the fact that he needs to speak to Jack. He needs to do it privately like Jack did with him, and Mark isn’t going to panic this time. He practiced what he is going to say. He practiced it over and over again, and he can say the words. He can do it without shaking them from his skull or choking on his breath. When Jack walks up, his head is down, hand still wrapped up, fingers curling around the edges of his styrofoam lunch tray, and cracking the material. He looks good. He’s got some new boots from somewhere, and with his oversized shirt and jeans, he looks pretty. Mark steps forward and rests a hand on Jack’s bicep, forcing himself to make eye contact. Mr. Josh said it was important.

Jack’s head jerks up, and when those blue eyes meet Mark’s, his heart crumbles. There’s a deep sadness, dark in Jack’s gaze. Streaks of remorse throughout that bright blue. The teenager gives Mark a surprised smile, back straightening up as he leans forward, about to start talking. Mark shakes his head and moves his arm down, taking Jack’s forearm and tugging his friend away from the main common area to a side hallway. Once the only sound is their footsteps, Mark pulls them to the side, sitting down. He takes a deep breath, hand slipping into his pocket and clutching the clicker.

Click.

“Jack. I practiced this all weekend, and it’s hard, but please let me get it all out,” Mark starts, staring across the hall. He traces the lines of the massive bricks. Jack stays quiet but nods at his friend.

Click.

“I like you too. I want to further our relationship, as well. I get so scared. I’ve had so many close people leave me, and I’m scared of it happening with you. You have made my life so much better, and I want you to stay. But I’ve pushed so many people away. I’ve done a lot of dumb shit, and I’ve pushed so many away. You have been nothing but kind to me, and I know you get scared too, and I know you push those fears away for me. You keep me grounded with everything you do, and I’ve been able to talk more than I have in a very long time. You are the reason for that, and I would never have been able to say all of this before. Thank you for everything you’ve done, and I’m sorry for being an asshole that ghosts you and pushes you away. I don’t know how to do anything else, but I want to try to be better—for you,” Mark says. His voice is monotone, and his eyes fixate on the wall across from him, and he knows this isn’t how ordinary people confess their feelings, but it’s all he can do. He doesn’t look at Jack next to him because he’s terrified of Jack’s reaction. He doesn’t see the brilliant smile and the glistening tears. He doesn’t see the nods and the sniffles and the bit lip.

But Mark feels the hug. He feels Jack’s arms wrapping around his torso, leaning into him and cradling Mark close. The teenager immediately reacts, turning, and hugging Jack back. It’s only then that he realizes he’s trembling.

“Thank you, Mark. That was perfect, you’re perfect,” Jack whispers, hand carding through Mark’s hair, and Jack smiles as Mark shifts closer to bury his face into the crook of his neck. Jack grins through the tears, so proud of Mark. He can only imagine how much work Mark put into that. He doesn’t care that Mark sounded like a computer while he said it. He doesn’t care that Mark didn’t look at him. Jack knows how much work just that took, and he cradles Mark close in reassurance, hugging him tight to ward off any residual panic.

Mark pulls away after a moment, just enough to look up at Jack. Those brown eyes shine with a whirlpool of emotions as the boy searches Jack’s face, desperately trying to gather information from Jack’s expressions. He knows certain things, like furrowed brows, mean anger, but subtleties are not in his playbook.

“What do you feel?” Mark forces out before closing his eyes and burying his face back into Jack’s neck. The other smiles, petting through Mark’s hair and looking down at his companion.

“I am elated. Hearing you talk for that long, without even stuttering, was absolutely amazing, and I’m so proud of you and so happy you were able to do that. I am so excited that you feel the same way I do, and you are so brave for sharing that with me. I am sad for what has happened to you in the past with the people who left you, but I’m happy that you are willing to give me a chance. I’m also nervous about something that I’m not sure I should do,” Jack explains, going through each thing. He lays out every single one of his emotions to try and tell Mark precisely what he’s feeling, letting them lay bare for Mark.

Mark lifts his head and furrows his brows, unable to make eye contact, but the confusion makes his question evident. What is Jack nervous about? In answer, Jack smiles and gently cups Mark’s jaw in his hands. Jack makes himself move slowly, and he keeps his grip light to help Mark stay calm. He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to Mark’s lips, eyelids fluttering shut for a moment before pulling away and letting his hands fall. Jack opens his eyes and stares at Mark, fingers clenching into fists as he waits with bated breath for Mark’s reaction.

Mark smiles, ducks his head, and flushes bright red.


	61. Chapter 61

Jack sifts through his pages of homework, chewing on his eraser as he looks over the complex notes for math. He has always struggled with math, and he has a quiz today, and Mark still isn’t here. It’s been about a month since they kissed. Jack has never felt better. The two spend more time together, trying to talk every morning, and sometimes going on walks during Jack’s breaks. Mark doesn’t go inside the coffee shop anymore, not after realizing Amy is running the place. But Jack will take whatever he can get. Jack has managed to start going out every Sunday evening, after dinner now that he’s regularly spending time with the family on weekends.

Today, they had agreed to be here thirty minutes before the bell so they could work on the math homework. Mark is a genius with math, and Jack desperately needs his help. The teenager can’t help it as his mind wanders to all the possible reasons Mark is here. His rational side tries to tell him that Mark is just running a little late. But the worried side of him is saying a different story. Mark regrets the kiss, and he’s ghosting Jack again. Maybe Mark had an awful panic attack and is back in the hospital. Jack winces at the thoughts and looks up toward the doors, watching with anxious anticipation. His mind is spiraling to so many ridiculous possibilities. Jack frowns and forces himself to look down, taking a few deep breaths. There’s no need to worry. Pondering vague possibilities never does anyone any good. Now is no different.

Taking a few deep breaths, he calms down, trying to relax. As much as Jack wants to constantly be there for Mark, it’s important that he doesn’t get too tied up. Having Mark become dependent on him, or even codependent between both of them would not be good. Jack can help Mark, but Mark can’t solely rely on him, and Jack can’t act like he’s the sole protector of Mark.

“Jack!” someone calls from the other direction. Jack whips around to see Ethan rapidly approaching, a wide grin on his face. He’s got a medal around his neck and it bounces with each jovial step. The blue of the ribbon seems to shine slightly in the light, and the gold shimmered in the light. Jack greets Ethan with a wave and a smile.

“What’s the medal for?” he asks, eyeing the blue ribbon and golden circle. The welded print is too small to read, but he’s curious. It looks rather fancy, and high quality for something he probably won in school.

“I won the school art competition! I’m going to districts!” Ethan declares, holding up the medal so that it waves in front of Jack. The teenager squints and quickly reads the print, smiling as he pulls back to focus on Ethan again. He’s so proud of him. Jack knows how hard Ethan works on his photography, and the fact that he won and that he’s getting rewarded for his hard work is amazing. 

“That’s fucking awesome man! Congrats! Can I see the winning work?” Jack asks, grinning wide with elation for his friend. Ethan smirks and looks at Jack for a long moment.

“You have to come to districts to see it. I promise, it’s good. It’s actually featuring you,” Ethan answers. Jack’s eyes widen and he blushes before shaking his head in disbelief.

“No way, dude, that was such a casual thing. How the fuck did that win?”

“If you come to the gallery, you can find out,” Ethan replies with an impish grin. Jack sticks his tongue out at Ethan and crosses his arms, pouting jokingly. If he can get the big reveal out of Ethan now, that’d be great, though everything he says is only out of half-hearted laziness. He’s elated that Ethan’s photo features him.

“Meanie.”

“Come to the gallery and all shall be revealed.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll go if I can make it. I need details boy!” Jack yields with a laugh, gently pushing Ethan.

“Oh! Yeah! Friday evening, around six,” Ethan says. Jack raises a brow.

“This Friday?”

“Oh, no, um, like… next Friday,” Ethan explains, furrowing his brows. Jack grins and nods.

“Sure, yeah, I’ll ask Amy for the time off. Is it alright if I bring a friend along? It’s a good chance for us to hang out,” Jack says. Ethan beams and nods.

“Totally! We’re hosting here this year, so it’ll be easy to remember the address. Just in the cafeteria, at six, next Friday,” Ethan adds, repeating some of the info as well. Jack smiles and nods. He makes a mental note to add it to his planner later, and set a reminder on his computer. He also needs to actually ask Mark if he wants to go. Jack hopes he’ll say yes.

“Oh, can I know who it is?” Ethan asks curiously. Jack hesitates for a moment, a shadow passing over his gaze as he opens his mouth to answer before pausing. He isn’t quite sure if he should tell Ethan, but the boy deserves to know. Mark is technically his guest after all. It’s only right that Jack tells him, especially with the awkward tension between the two.

“Umm, yeah, yeah, it’s Mark,” Jack answers after a moment. Ethan’s brows furrow and he tentatively nods. Jack bites his lip and looks at Ethan with nervous energy, thrumming with hope and anxiety.

“Okay, cool, I’ll… I’ll see you guys there,” he replies, giving Jack an absentminded wave before walking off, head whirling with thoughts. Ethan hasn’t talked to Mark in a very long time. But the revelation at the photo shoot was coming back in full force. It’s time to put things in the past. Mark deserves to be there, just as Jack does, and it’s good he’s coming. Ethan gave up on Mark when the boy needed him most, and he regrets it. The teenager is remorseful for leaving Mark how he did. It was bitter, angry, and immature. He decides the gallery will be good. He can show Mark the art and talk to him. Ethan needs to mend a broken relationship.


	62. Chapter 62

They’re at the park again, this time sitting on a bench and sharing a bag of Cheeto puffs that Mark bought on a whim in a convenience store. Mark is lying with his head in Jack’s lap, legs outstretched over the bench and crossed at the ankle. He holds the bag with one hand and eats with the other. Jack uses one hand to play with Mark’s hair, and the other occasionally steals one of Mark’s bites.

“Mark?” Jack asks, biting his lip as he decides it’s time to bring it up. It’s the Sunday before the gallery display, and procrastination isn’t much of an option anymore. The other boy switches his attention from the bag of cheesy chemical puffs to Jack with raised brows and a curious, innocent gaze up at his boyfriend.

“So, I got featured in some art, and it’s going to districts. I got invited to go and see it in person, and I would love it if you were able to come as well,” Jack asks. He twirls a longer curl of Mark’s dark hair, admiring his luscious hair as he talks. It’s best to remain casual with Mark. He’s not good at picking up on facial expressions or tone of voice, so if he misreads any slight change in emotion, it can mess up his thoughts and worry him.

Mark nods.

Jack grins, “Fuck yeah, awesome. It’s on Friday at six. We could meet up at the cafe and go together? It’s just at the school cafeteria since we’re apparently hosting it this year for the district,” he elaborates. Mark nods and eats another Cheeto. He holds one up for Jack, who grins and takes it between his teeth, chewing it and swallowing as the two giggle amongst themselves.

Friday rapidly arrives in a whirlwind of test prep, coffee-making, and brisk walks with Mark through the cooling air as winter approaches. On Friday, Jack dresses in the Dr. Martens, the jeans, and the photoshoot sweater as the cold front intensifies. He clocks off his shift, hanging up the apron and hat before heading outside, handing Mark a to-go cup of hot chocolate and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Mark grins and waves to Jack, taking the cup.

“Thank you,” he says, clearing his throat afterward and blushing. Jack laughs and presses another kiss to Mark’s cheek.

“No problem, anything to hear that pretty voice,” he compliments, interlocking his hand with Mark’s freehand. Jack gives it a squeeze before the two set off on the walk to the school, bundled up in jackets. Mark makes Jack take a sip of the hot chocolate every once in a while after he catches Jack sniffling from the cold. He doesn’t want his boyfriend to get a cold.

They reach the school and step into the blessedly warm cafeteria with soft sighs. Jack pulls his hand from Mark’s, slipping off the scarf and pushing it into his backpack. Mark tosses the empty cup in the trash, and the two venture forward into the small crowds that amble along through the tables holding various frames and easels of artwork. Mark reaches for Jack’s hand again, but Jack turns just in time, dodging it.

“Jack! You’re here!” Ethan exclaims, bustling forward with that characteristic smile that seems to continually accompany his words. Mark tenses at the voice, eyes widening as he realizes exactly who it is.

“Mark, I’m glad you’re here too. I used a picture of you as well, and it’s awesome to see and chat with you again,” Ethan says quietly, reaching forward to rest a reassuring hand on his bicep. The teenager tenses and shuffles back, clearly uncomfortable. Ethan frowns and ducks his head, thinking for a moment. He looks around, seeing the little group is relatively secluded at the moment. Mark closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He hasn’t had to face Ethan in ages. He hasn’t had to face his regrets, his failure, that night, in so long. Mark pushed Ethan away, just like with everyone else, and Ethan is coming back.

“I’m s-sorry for… for that night,” Mark forces out, squeezing his eyes closed as he fights the rattling in his mind. Ethan gives the boy a weary smile.

“Thank you for apologizing, that’s… that’s amazing, Mark. I want to apologize as well. You were going through some really messed up shit, and I was selfish, and I got frustrated so easily, and I just left you there. I’m sorry for giving up on you,” Ethan replies, fiddling with his fingers in his anxiety. Mark observes the other, with furrowed brows and a guilty expression. The teenager turns to look at Jack, the question evident through his face. Is Ethan genuine?

Jack nods rapidly, and Mark’s lips curl into a grin. He turns back to Ethan and steps forward, hugging the boy tightly. Ethan practically squeaks in surprise before hugging back. Mark pulls away and pats Ethan on the shoulder.

“Move on?” Mark asks, hoping Ethan gets the chopped phrasing. Mark wants to move on from the past, start over, and rebuild this friendship. They’ve both changed so much, but it’s time to start making amends and sewing things back together.

Ethan grins, “Starting from anew,” he agrees, fixing his hair and beaming at Mark. “Now! This piece! Come! Come! I really want to show you guys!” He bustles off, and the couple hurries after him, sharing a glance before weaving through the small crowds until they catch up to Ethan, who’s standing by his work.

Mark freezes, staring at the photo. It’s from middle school. He’s somehow standing back to back with Jack, who has been edited in. They’re both staring down at the pond that seems to surround them, at the exact same place. Their reflections gaze back from the surface, broken and despairing, revealing a painful part of their emotions that the figures above the water have erased from their face, taped up the cracks, and presented to the world as fixed and stable. But in the water, the cheap glue dissolves, and the cracks spread, revealing the sadness, the fear, the anxiety, that both seem overwhelmed with, drowning in their minds.

Mark closes his eyes to block out the picture, but all he sees in the darkness is his backyard, that gun, the note fluttering in the wind beneath the rock. It’s too real. That pain is too real. The memories move faster. He can taste that metal tang in his mouth. Mark swallows and tries to control his breathing as his heart rate spikes, and his throat tightens.

There are hands on his shoulders, there’s a voice, and it’s Ethan. Mark shakes his head, trying to fight him away. This is too much. He can’t do it. This is too much. He snaps his head side to side, trying to snap out the images that cling to his mind. The hands pull away and are replaced by a different set resting on his forearms. He’s much closer, almost up against Mark.

“C’mon Mark, look at me, look at me, baby,” Jack murmurs, thumbs rubbing over Mark’s forearms. He’s so close, Mark feels his breath ghosting over his cheek. The teenager whimpers and opens his eyes met with Jack’s piercing blue gaze. Jack takes up his entire vision, blocking off his sightlines, and filling the space. Mark stares into Jack’s eyes for a long moment before averting his gaze to Jack’s lips. He watches as Jack says something else.

“Take a breath for me,” slips into the space between them, and Mark gives Jack a jerky nod, breath rattling in as he trembles. He hopes Jack can’t feel it in his arms, but Mark knows he usually can.

“Now out,” Jack directs, doing the same. Mark tries, but he blinks, and that moment comes back, painted onto the back of his eyelids. His breath hitches, and the pace begins to rise again as he starts to hyperventilate.

“No, no, find a color, Mark, tell me a color,” Jack says, voice rising in volume and becoming firm for a moment. Mark forces his eyes open and stares at Jack.

“Brown,” he whispers, looking at his eyebrows. They’re furrowed, and Mark hopes it doesn’t mean Jack is angry.

“Good, good, another one?”

“Pink,” Mark says, darting from above Jack’s eyes to below, watching his lips for a moment. They curl into a gentle smile as Mark answers.

“One more, Mark, one more,” Jack murmurs, squeezing Mark’s hands a fraction tighter. Mark whimpers and forces his eyes upward, sliding from his lips, along the bridge of his nose, to those beautiful eyes.

“Blue,” he whispers, and Jack gently steps back now that Mark is better, patting Mark’s forearms once before letting go and stepping back to an average friend distance. Jack turns his head to the side, looking over at the artwork with knit brows and thin lips pressed together with worry.

Jack himself is worried about the photo. The emotions are something he tries to hide. It’s worrisome that Ethan sees them so clearly. Not only that, but it’s only just now hitting him that Ethan won the school art competition, and he may win districts. His parents might see this photo. It will undoubtedly be tweeted out or posted on the school website. However, he tries to ignore his worries, turning back to Mark with a forced calm and smiling at him to reassure his boyfriend.

He hopes everything will be alright.


	63. Chapter 63

The couple wanders through the gallery for the next thirty minutes or so, whispering quiet comments and jokes about the artwork, admiring and teasing them all at the same time. Of course, they’re biased towards Ethan’s. Soon, the judges step up onto the small podium, tapping the microphone. The feedback flares up, and everyone winces, turning to look. The lady leans forward with a sheepish smile, testing the microphone again and relaxing once it comes out normal.

“If I could have everyone’s attention, I would like to announce the winner’s from the gallery today. The artwork seems to get better and better every year, and I’m honored to…” Mark ignores the rest of the speech, staring at the paintings and pieces around them as he waits for the exciting part.

“Now, all three pieces that place will go on to the state competition. If your name and piece is called, please come forward, and we would love to hear a small explanation of the work,” the lady says before glancing down at her paper. “In third place, we have Ainar Omarov, with Elation.”

The audience claps as the painting is revealed as a little girl receiving an apple with a brilliant grin on her face. The teenager moves forward, a broad, surprised grin on his face as he climbs the stairs to the podium, getting his medal, and then speaking about his work for a moment. He brings up the little girl, apparently his sister, who is the subject of the piece. Mark zones out until the lady steps up again.

“In second place, we have Joy Dambe with Mother,” she says, and Mark watches the girl hurry up, long dark hair swaying down her back, glinting with gold dreadlock rings. She talks about the painting style, and she’s more animated than the boy. Her painting was revealed, showing a portrait of a woman in colorful, traditional Nigerian clothing. She looks regal and powerful. Joy calls up her mom, and while she’s in ordinary clothes, she carries the same air of strength about her. Mark pays attention, biting his lip as the woman steps up again. He holds his breath, and Mark feels Jack tense beside him.

“In first place, we have Ethan Nestor, with Reflections,” the woman announces, and the audience applauds. Mark breaks into a bright grin, vigorously clapping for his friend as he climbs the stairs and receives his medal and a plaque as well. The photograph is shown for everyone, and a few people turn around to look at Mark and Jack. Mark avoids their gazes, eyes on his friend as Ethan steps up to the microphone.

“I’ve been fascinated by photography for many years, and this is really a great representation of that. These are two of my friends, Mark and Jack,” Ethan says, looking at the two and motioning for them to come up with a wave of his hand. Mark bites his lip and reaches for Jack’s hand as everyone turns to stare at them, but Jack moves forward before he can get it. Mark follows after Jack, blinking a few times and trying to stay calm. As they move to stand beside Ethan, staring out over the crowd, he continues.

“I took the pictures of Mark back in middle school, and a month or so ago, I took the pictures of Jack. I didn’t intend for either of these to be my competition pieces. Still, there was a chilling similarity between them, and I wanted to show the emotion they had. I wanted to show how people so often wear masks, hiding their true emotions and concerns behind a calm face. The color grading, highlighting, matching, and cutting was more intensive than the actual photography. I’m so proud of how it came out, and I’m honored my friends are willing to model for me,” Ethan says. He steps away and moves to stand between Mark and Jack, holding his photo as they pose with the others for a picture. Then, they’re all seated.

The lady moves to the microphone, “I would like to applaud all of the subjects for their bravery. Posing for an art piece is intimidating. Being able to bare one’s emotions in an unfamiliar setting like that takes a great deal of bravery. Thank you for being open and honest with yourself and for being willing to share this with us.”

Mark looks down with furrowed brows. They think it’s brave. These people think it’s brave to share these terrifying emotions. Mr. Josh says the same thing too. Jack said the same thing. Whenever Mark opens up, he’s praised for it. Everyone believes it’s brave and takes strength to reveal such intimate, personal feelings. Mark shouldn’t be so ashamed of his anxiety. Like anyone else, he’s got struggles, and hiding it, pushing people away for it, is the cowardly choice. The brave option is being honest and open with others. He smiles slightly to himself and shifts closer to Jack, reaching out to take his hand, but Jack pulls his hand away, moving to clasp his hands together in front of him. Mark feels his heart clench. The first few times that Jack avoided his hand seemed like a coincidence, but now it’s become a pattern. They stay on the podium for a bit longer before coming back down. 

They’re swamped by people congratulating Ethan and praising Jack and Mark. All Mark can think about is how Jack rejected him again. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. The chatter of the people talking to Ethan slowly dulls into a peaceful murmur as Mark focuses on blocking it out. He works on keeping his mind calm, fighting against the panic and anxiety that’s rising from Jack’s continuous rejection. He manages to keep himself calm, fighting against the whirling thoughts that are constantly trying to spiral through his mind. Slowly, the crowd dissipates, people beginning the leave, and eventually, it’s just the three of them again. Mark stays beside Jack, but there’s a tense air between them.


	64. Chapter 64

“Wanna go to the cafe? My treat?” Ethan asks with a grin. His hair is tousled, voice a bit breathless, eyes sparkling with elation. Jack smiles and immediately nods, excited for the prospect of free food not given out of a sense of charity.

“Yeah, that sounds awesome. We’d love to go,” Jack answers, speaking for Mark as well. The teenager frowns and looks over at Jack, frustrated. Why is he acting like everything is alright? This is not alright. Jack keeps rejecting Mark, and it’s not fine. They’re boyfriends, not secret lovers. Mark thought Jack was okay with their relationship, but he clearly has some reservations. It’s insulting. Does Jack not want their relationship to be public? Does he think it’ll tarnish his reputation in some way? Does he inwardly believe he’ll be judged for dating Mark?

On the walk to the cafe, Jack tries to reach for Mark’s hand again, but Mark pulls away this time. He sends a glaring frown to his boyfriend before turning his nose away and shoving his hands into his pockets. If Jack will not hold his hand in the cafeteria, Mark will not hold his hand out here. The wind is biting now, as the sky darkens, and street lamps turn on. It cuts into their faces as they trek against the bitter chill, noses tucked down into jackets and their hoods uptight. Ethan is chattering along happily, smiling brightly as he practically skips ahead, grinning brilliantly. He seems impervious to the cold, warm and bright, while Jack and Mark are both huddled up, cold and bitter.

It’s only as the group walks up to the place does Mark actually process where they are. Obviously, they’re at Lola’s, but he hadn’t fully realized that until just now. Mark stills in the doorway, pausing and staring at the shop as Ethan and Jack walk in without a problem. Amy is behind the counter, wiping down the surface. She looks up and grins, happily greeting the two before freezing as she sees Mark. The smile falls from her face like a bag slowly sliding off a desk as the weight pulls it down. Amy steps out from behind the counter, walking past Jack and Ethan over to Mark. She furrows and brows and takes Mark’s arm. 

Seeing Mark with Ethan is the final push. Amy’s been thinking about apologizing for quite some time now, and the sight of Mark with Ethan again proves the point. Things have changed, and it’s time to own up to her mistakes. She gently pulls him back outside, turning to face him as the door swings closed behind them, leaving Jack and Ethan to their own devices. Mark shakes his head hard, blinking and looking anywhere but at Amy.

“Mark, I want to apologize. I’ve been awful to you. I just ditched you because I was worried about what people would think. I made excuses about being busy, and I didn’t bother to keep up. I distanced myself because I was shallow and selfish. I’m so sorry. It was wrong and cruel. You were going through a lot, and I was too lazy and uncaring to actually do anything to help. I’ve just avoided you for the past year or so, and I really don’t know how I can get more cowardly than that. I love you so much, you’re such a great, kind, gentle soul, and I can’t believe I ever thought it was a smart idea to break apart our friendship. As soon as the slightest gap grew between us, I gave up, and it was stupid. You’re an amazing person, and I… I would like to try again, if you’ll let me. I would love to be your friend again,” Amy spills out, tears welling up that she hastily dabs away before it ruins her eyeliner.

Mark bows his head and looks down at the ground for a long moment. He thinks over what she said and then works on figuring out what to say, not to mention how to say it. Amy stands patiently, slowly calming back down as Mark deliberates over this moment. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, preparing himself for the loud rumbling that rattles his skull. If he prepares for it, the feeling won’t bother him as much. He can mend this. Amy is asking for forgiveness, and Mark shouldn’t shut him out. 

“Thank you for that. I… I think being friends again would be good,” Mark mumbles, lifting his head to force himself to meet Amy’s gaze. Eye contact is important, even though he hates it. Mark only manages a quick glance before turning his head again, “Wanna get a drink?” he asks with a touch of dry, amused sarcasm. Amy giggles breathlessly and nods, opening the door and holding it for Mark. The two-step in, relaxing as they enter the warmth of the cafe, and the door closes behind them, shutting out the icy wind. The lights are dim in the cafe, and the music plays softly in the background as they walk further in.

“Yes, I’d love one,” she answers, walking in after Mark. “Okay, y’all, what are we feeling? I’m thinking we do a smorgasbord of sweets and super sugary drinks to celebrate Ethan being an awesome artist and for you two being awesome models!” Amy proposes to the group. Jack perks up immediately.

“Oh! Fuck yes! Food!” Jack exclaims, scurrying behind the counter and grabbing a few plates to fill with brownies, muffins, croissants, and cookies. Amy fills up four mugs with fresh hot chocolate, and the four kids sit down at a table, beginning to talk. It is tentative at first, stepping out onto repaired bridges, nervous they’ll collapse beneath their feet again. However, it quickly warms up, sugar and warm drinks effectively calming everyone down and building a comfortable, soothing environment. The teenagers laugh and joke around for several hours. Mark watches as his group comes back together, happy, and content.


	65. Chapter 65

Mark walks home as the night truly settles in, streetlamps cutting through the sheets of darkness around him. His nose almost burns in the cold, and Mark tucks his chin down into the collar of his jacket as he paces down the sidewalks hurriedly.

He got two friends back today, cleaning up old paths that had grown over with weeds and thorns, treading down familiar lanes of communication. Mark never thought he'd get Ethan and Amy back. He had pushed them away with everything he could, erecting wall after wall. Mark had screamed at Ethan through the door, the taste of gunmetal still in his mouth. Mark had cut off all communication with Amy, ignoring each text, every picture. He doesn't fully understand why they are apologizing to him and not the other way around. They did nothing but what his actions requested and eventually demanded.

He pushed them away, and instead of trying to mend things, he'd been passive until they came back to him. It felt cheap, even if it was still a good thing. Fervent apologies and sincere hopefulness had sewed up gaping wounds, giving them a greater chance of fully healing, and Mark wanted to see how long this can last. He can pay their apologies forward. There is another relationship he can try to fix. He can be brave, like Ethan and Amy, and he can swallow his bitterness and his pride, just as they did. 

Mark digs out his phone, cursing quietly as the cold plastic of the case presses tingles through his chilled fingers. Hurriedly typing in his passcode, he opens up his texts and types a few letters into the search bar. It's been almost two years since the last message. Mark taps on the name and types out a message. He watches his cursor blink over the previous letter six times before pressing the arrow to send. Mark turns off his phone and shoves it back into the blessedly warm recesses of his jacket pocket, along with his hands, and hurries the last few minutes home.

He gets home, and his phone buzzes, but Mark ignores it. He decides he'll check the response in the morning. Rushing through some semblance of a bedtime routine, Mark slips in his earbuds and clicks through his phone, selecting a microphone brushing ASMR video. After Mark plugs his phone into the charger, he tosses it to the other side of his bed and curls up, eyes fluttering closed as the warmth of his blankets surrounds him, and the soothing sounds wash over him.

The next morning, Mark checks his phone first thing and bolts up out of bed, checking the time. They're meeting in an hour. The boy grins to himself, climbing out of bed. He takes a warm shower before braving the chill of his room again to dry off and tug on a warm sweater, followed by a hoodie. He grabs some gloves this time, shoving his wallet and phone into his back pocket and listening to music as he hurries downstairs. Mark tugs on his shoes, ignoring the confused glance from his mother until she speaks up.

"Mark, where are you going?"

"To talk to Thomas," is all he says before rushing out the door and into the crisp morning air. The sun casts a gentle amber lighting over the brick buildings, reflecting off windows with a harsher glare and soaking into the awnings over doorsteps. He reaches the cafe, slipping inside. Mark walks over to the counter and nods when Amy smiles and gives him a wave as he steps up to the register. Jack perks up and smiles as well, but Mark ignores him. Sean still has some explaining to do for his behavior last night. Mark gives Amy a small wave back before looking over the menu.

"Do you remember what I ordered for Tom and me?" he asks after he cannot find the drinks on the menu. It's been quite a while.

Amy immediately brightens into a grin, nodding, and beginning to chatter away as she types in the order. Mark swipes his card and nods along, but his focus is back on the shop entrance. Tom will be here at any moment, and the nerves are beginning to build with each minute. Mark turns once Amy is done talking and goes to his familiar seat in the corner of the shop. Jack brings over the two drinks a few minutes later and opens his mouth to say something, but Mark turns his head away.

"Figure it out, then we'll talk," he says, nails digging into his thighs as he fights to stay calm, feeling the words rattle through his bones, vibrate in his throat. His boyfriend ducks his head, appearing thoroughly chastened as he turns and goes back to the counter. Mark's heart clenches for Jack, but he fights the urge to apologize. Boundaries are essential, and Jack can't act like everything is fine after doing something like that at the art gallery. Mark doesn't want to be some secret lover or any bullshit like that. The thought that Jack is scared to admit to others that he likes Mark runs through his head far too often as is, and actions like what happened yesterday only further those feelings.

The bell above the door rings as someone enters the shop, and Mark's gaze darts over. Tom is there, in all his familiar glory and confidence. His brother shoots Mark a smile as he walks over, pulling out the seat across from him and sitting down.

"Nice, you got my favorite," Tom murmurs, leaning forward and picking up the mug, taking a sip. He smiles with satisfaction and looks at Mark. "How have things been?" he asks, as if this is just another regular meet-up, as if this was a casual chat.

"No, we aren't going to act like everything is fine. The last time we talked, you punched me," Mark says, clearing his throat and clutching his own mug tight in his hands.

"And you screamed at me," Tom replies. Mark winces and looks down.

"I'm sorry. I was projecting. I called you selfish, but it was just a lot of my own insecurities," he apologizes, blinking a few times rapidly. Tom nods and looks down at his mug for a long moment, mulling over his words.

"I'm sorry for leaving like that, Mark. I don't think it's selfish to need support. We've always been close, and you needed me. I was so caught up in my athletic career that I ignored my own family. I was a dumb ass. I was so busy with myself that I never properly thought about our familial relationships. It's so obvious that Mom and Dad would need to focus on you a bit more. You're going through a lot of shit. Yeah, it makes me sad that they couldn't be there for my meets and that they paid less attention to me, but I never needed that from them. You actively needed their attention, and it was ignorant of me to place so much frustration and stupidity onto you. This is not your fault. I take full responsibility for being a fucking idiot," Thomas apologizes, leaning forward over the table and taking another sip as he watches Mark with the careful, watchful eye of an older sibling.

"It's not a full responsibility thing. We both fucked up, and we were both stupid. I said some really dumb shit to you and judged you to ridiculous standards. I'm sorry for that. I always expected you to be there, just like Mom and Dad, and I ignored that you had your own life and made everything solely about me when there was so much other shit happening. I thought of this really dumb metaphor at the time about how I was the epicenter of all our family's problems, like a rock shattering glass and sending cracks arching through a massive window. If that's not self-centered, I don't know what is. You have dreams and a life, and I ignored that. I'm sorry," Mark responds with intense seriousness, taking sips of his drink throughout the short speech whenever the words rattled too much. The familiar sweet warmth of the liquid would immediately dampen any errant vibrations. Tom's smile holds a bittersweetness as he listens to his younger brother talk, gaze full with a familiar fondness.

"I'm honestly embarrassed that you're the one who reached out. You're totally being the bigger person here. I missed the years where my baby brother was growing up," he murmurs, and Mark flushes, glaring at Tom over his mug.

"I think I just caught the tail-end of yours just now," Mark snarks back, and Tom snorts with amusement.

"So, now can we catch up?" he asks, and Mark smirks.

"I'm in a relationship," he announces with a teasing nonchalant attitude. Tom gasps and leans forward.

"Holy shit, I don't believe you. I need receipts. Pictures. Recording. Video evidence," he says, and Mark blushes, smiling as he digs out his phone and unlocks it, going to his photos. The pair chats for several hours, buying more drinks. Mark has to keep drinking as he talks, and Tom doesn't push too much. He respects Mark when the boy gestures for Tom to take over, the grimaces on his face making it clear as he shakes his head and blinks. They're testing the waters again, but soon, they get back into the piercing ebb and flow of brothers, shooting teasing jabs at one another as the minutes roll by. Mark can't help the constant grin that seeps back across his lips at every possible chance, elated to have Tom back. He has so much to tell Mr. Josh about.


	66. Chapter 66

The dot by Jack's profile picture turns green on Discord, and Mark bites his lip, watching as his screen immediately shifts into a call. "Spedicey" reads the name, coupled with a cheese photo of Jack winking and sticking his tongue out. It's such a familiar picture, but today, it brings a sense of trepidation to Mark. So, what would typically be an immediate answer turns into Mark staring at the red rejection button as he holds an intense internal debate.

Jack. His boyfriend. The one who ignored his strange behavior, pushing closer and breaking through every wall. He shattered every barrier, with his constant chatter that ebbed over Mark's stony thoughts, eroding into him and smoothing out the jagged corners of his thoughts. Jack kept coming back, with his chestnut brown hair curling over his forehead, and his aquamarine eyes always searching to meet Mark's.

But not on Friday. Jack had distanced himself on Friday, keeping touches platonic, rejecting Mark's offered affection, turning his head when Mark worked to meet his gaze. Mark felt the rejection like a knife to his gut, and the immediate implication is clear. Jack wants to hide their relationship. The teenager breaks out of his thoughts and sighs, pressing the accept button for the video call. Jack is at the library since it’s Sunday evening, curled up in a familiar chair with shelves of books stretching out behind him.

"Mark, I'm sorry. I panicked on Friday. I… I was thinking about what if my family sees those pictures. There were a lot of people there and a lot of cameras out. What if they saw a picture of us holding hands? They're already super suspicious, and my mom almost caught me coming home that night anyway. It was just all so risky. I can't do that; I can't risk making our relationship entirely public. My parents will go batshit crazy," Jack explains, brows furrowed as he leans in toward the camera, as if he can be physically closer to Mark by doing that.

Mark looks off to the side, slouching back in his seat and fiddling with the fidget spinner he kept by his desk for Discord calls. He rolls it over in his hands and deliberates. When Mark turns back to the camera, he sees Jack with his head down and his face buried into his hands. Mark sighs and leans toward the camera.

"Jack," he calls. His boyfriend immediately looks up, expression hopeful. Mark spins the toy and starts talking as it whirs softly in the background. "I can't… I can't do that. I cannot be a part-time boyfriend. I almost had another panic attack there in the gallery, when everyone was surrounding us, and you wouldn't hold my hand. I need someone who is going to be there for me. If you want to be someone I can rely on, you need to be reliable. What you did on Friday was not reliable, and it was insulting. You did that entirely out of the blue, and that hurt," Mark replies.

"But-" Jack starts, and Mark holds up a hand, spinning the toy again. Jack stops, knowing Mark isn't finished with his talking yet. Internally, he feels a sense of pride that Mark is speaking so confidently, though it's strange to mix that with the shame he feels for being the object of Mark's ire.

"This whole thing of being two different people between your school and home life isn't healthy. You have to face your fears and come to terms with yourself. If you need a place to stay, I will gladly open up my house, you know that. This whole charade of being Jack at school, and Sean at home needs to stop. You've always encouraged me to face my fears, and you always praise me for being brave, but you need to be brave too. Being strong and hiding all your emotions isn't brave. Like in the pictures, you know? Showing those emotions was brave," Mark says. Jack stares at Mark with wide eyes, like a deer caught in headlights as he looks at his boyfriend. Jack is clearly conflicted. The teenager eventually looks down, rubbing his face.

"Mark, I'm not as brave as you," he whispers. "I'm scared," he admits. Mark smiles and tilts his head to the side. He sets his fidget spinner to the side and clenches his hands into fists. He doesn't need the toy.

"Jack, I'm always scared. But you were the one who taught me to be brave. You're the reason I got my friends back. You inspired me to reach out to my brother. You're the mentor behind all that. I will… I will come with you when you come out to your parents, and if they reject you, you can stay here. I love you, and I want you to be happy. Living in fear over a secret about who you are is no way to be happy, and you know that. This has been eating at you for ages, hasn't it? I want to love all of you, as Jack, and as Sean."

Tears well up in Jack's eyes, and he nods, leaning forward and ending the call. Mark sighs and stares at the dark screen before standing and going downstairs. He hopes whatever he said helped, but that's all he can do—hope.

Jack stands from his own chair and shoves his laptop into his bag, hurrying out of the library as he hides his tears. Mark is so right, but the terror Jack feels every time he considers coming out is overwhelming. It makes his gut clench up, and his throat tightens, and his hands shake, and his legs turn to jelly. Jack doesn't want to lose his family, but he knows Mark is right. They aren't family if they reject him for he is. They don't deserve that title if they don't think Jack deserves their love for being gay. Yet, that doesn't change the doubt and fear that roots into the back of his mind.


	67. Chapter 67

Mark doesn't talk to Jack for a week. Every single day, Jack comes into the classroom with his lunch and sits down. Once he sits down, Mark turns to face away from Jack, staring out the window with a pointed glare, jaw set. Until Sean either gives Mark an excellent reason for this or apologizes, Mark will not stand for this. Mark understands Jack is scared. But, there is absolutely no indication that his family will physically harm him if he comes out. Frankly, Mark thinks Jack coming to live with him would probably be better anyway. Mark knows Jack can barely get any work done at his apartment, crammed onto a couch in the living room, with four little siblings to watch in the later hours after his own job because his parents are busy with work.

Jack spends the entire week watching Mark as he eats, mind running with internal arguments over this. He knows what he did last Friday was cruel. The guilt burns in his stomach, roiling and curdling with shame that he would leave Mark stranded as people swamped them, chattering loudly and surrounding the boys.

It's Sunday again, and Jack is still deciding. It's been a full week, and this issue is beginning to drag on. Jack keeps arguing that he needs to get over this and face his fears. Sean keeps arguing that his family won't take it well. He looks up from his seat at the kitchen table, watching his mom bustle about the kitchen, cooking Sunday dinner. She's singing one of the hymns from Church, which only furthers Sean's worries. His dad is in the living room, playing a board game with the younger siblings, and he can hear the exclamations and giggles from here. 

Jack loves Mark.

Sean loves his family.

Jack is scared of his family.

Sean is not scared of Mark.

The teenager pushes back his seat and stands, rushing to his bag in the living room. He tugs on his shoes and jacket, pulling on some old gloves as well.

"Going out!" he shouts, running from the apartment as his parents call after him with confused questions. Jack jogs down the stairs, jumping the last few and breaking out into the street before sprinting off. He doesn't know why it took him so long to realize that. The decision is so unerringly simple when he thinks of it like that. The boy makes a quick stop, buying something from a familiar spot, as well as using the restroom to change into his skinny jeans before running on. He eventually reaches Mark's house, his breath puffing out in rapid bursts of condensation in the cold air as he rings the doorbell. Jack waits a moment before the door swings open, revealing Mark's mother.

"Hi, umm, is Mark home?" he pants, a broad grin on his face. She looks him over for a moment.

"Sorry, does he… know you?" She asks, obviously concerned. Jack laughs softly and nods.

"Yess, sorry, sorry. My name is Sean, I also go by Jack. I'm his boyfriend," Sean answers with a smile. Her eyes widen, thin eyebrows comically rising before she processes the information and breaks into a grin.

"Oh! It's wonderful to meet you, Sean! I didn't know Mark had a boyfriend! Honestly, this boy! He never talks to me!" she tuts, opening the door wider. "Come in, come in! He's upstairs in his room, the last door on the left," she waves Jack in, closing the door behind the boy.

"I'll grab some snacks for you boys, you need more meat on your bones, and Mark is always working out so much! He needs more food!" she says, and Jack blushes, smiling lightly.

"Oh, I was just, I was actually going to invite him over to my place for dinner," he stumbles a bit, off-put by such a positive reaction from Mark's mother. He never expected such a sweet, exciting vibe from a parent after coming out as gay. She smiles and aw's quietly.

"Well, I'll have to return the favor next week! Yes, yes, I'll get you a little something, though," she says, gently guiding him towards the stairs before bustling into the kitchen. Jack blushes and bounds up the steps, going to the last door and knocking. He hears a groan of irritance from inside, so he decides it's safe to enter. Jack slams open the door.

"Wanna go feed the ducks and have dinner at my place?" he asks, almost shouting. Mark screeches, bolting back from where he's watching YouTube at his desk.

"The hell are you doing here?"

"Let's come out as flaming homosexuals! Quick! We've got to go feed the ducks before they fly south!" Jack exclaims, tossing the bag of burger buns towards Mark, who catches them with a growing grin on his face.

"Fag, sure as hell took you long enough," he teases, standing and going over to his closet. Jack only just now realizes he's not wearing anything but a pair of boxer briefs, and his face flushes. Sean hurriedly turns his head away, letting Mark get dressed in peace.

"Hey! There were good points on both sides! You're just so impossible to resist that my choice became immeasurable clear," Jack snarks back, rocking back and forth on his heels and toes. He squeaks as the bag of bread hits the side of his face, scrabbling to catch it before turning to glare at Mark, who at least has pants on now.

"Oi! Fuck off!" he exclaims, and Mark just grins. The teenager turns and pulls on a sweater and jacket, tugging on some shoes before grabbing his phone and wallet. He walks over to Jack and presses a kiss to his lips.

"I practiced talking all week," he hummed in a low voice that rumbles in his chest. Jack blushes and smiles.

"You keep one-upping me," he lightly whines, leaning forward to kiss Mark again. The feeling of his lips against his brings warm, familiar contentment to Jack's chest that he didn't realize he'd been missing the past week. It only further reaffirms that he did well. This was the right choice to make. They separate and head downstairs, where Mark's mom is shoving a tin of homemade cookies into Jack's hands. Mark giggles as she dotes over them for a few minutes before they finally escape her loving remarks, slipping out the door into the nipping cold again. Jack shoves the tin into his bag and takes Mark's hand, smiling at him before they continue out through the city, towards a moment of bravery.

They stop and feed the ducks, giggling and teasing each other about the silly little tradition they'd built. There are significantly fewer birds there, but the stragglers remain, profiting off their plethora of carbohydrates and fattening up further. The park is empty on the cold afternoon, and the wind brushes over the pond, sending up small, rippling waves that send the waterfowl bobbing and rocking with each miniature surge of water. They kiss again, much more fervently, and for far longer. When they finally pull apart, Jack smirks at Mark's flushed face and reddened lips.

"Just trying to keep you warm, baby."


	68. Chapter 68

Jack stops outside his apartment door, staring at the scratched up number with an empty gaze. Mark watches, waiting patiently as he holds Jack’s hand. After a minute or so, Jack takes a deep breath and nods to himself.

“Ready?” Mark whispers.

“No,” Jack murmurs before unlocking the door and pushing it open. The couple steps inside and Jack closes the door, locking back up. He leads Mark into the living room, where his mother has joined the rest of the family, playing a game of Sorry!

They all look up as the two walk in, and the room goes dead silent as the family takes in the couple in front of them. Mark squeezes Jack’s hand for moral support and stays quiet, letting Jack do the introductions as he watches his boyfriend. This is for Sean, not the McLoughlin family.

“So, this is my boyfriend, Mark,” Jack starts, voice high and wavering. “We’ve been dating for a while now, but we’ve actually known each other for years, from even back in middle school. He has made me incredibly happy, and he’s smart, and brave, and the gentlest, kindest soul I’ve ever known, and I love him,” Jack declares, and Mark smiles softly, his warm gaze watching Jack with pure love. He only has eyes for Sean.

The room is so quiet that Mark can hear something bubbling lightly in the kitchen, probably some sort of soup. Jack’s dad is glaring at Sean, his mother looks like she is about to cry, and the kids are staring back and forth between the adults and the teenagers as if it was a tennis match. Connor opens his mouth to say something, and Jack immediately cuts him off.

“Before anyone goes into a tirade about how this isn’t what God wants, or about how this will make my life so much harder, I would like to address those two points. One, please don’t do that whole ‘love the sinner but hate the sin’ thing. It’s mentioned like three times in the Bible, and at that point in time, homosexuality was mostly men raping boys, not really much about proper, consensual relationships, because that just wasn’t practical at all for the time. Also, this isn’t some gross sinful thing that I’ve failed to fight back against. I’ve been gay since before puberty. This is not a purely sexual thing. We’ve shared like three kisses in all the years that we’ve known each other. Mark makes me so incredibly happy. This also ties into the second point. He has made me a better person. He’s made me more responsible, kinder, braver, and stronger. My life has become much, much better with Mark by my side. Like any relationship, we aren’t perfect, but we’re stronger together than we are apart,” Jack says. Connor frowns, but keeps his mouth shut. Shannon looks down and dabs a few tears from her eyes. That dreadful silence settles back in and Mark blinks a few times to try and fight it off.

“Boys, will you take over for Connor and I in the game? We… we need a moment,” she adjudicates, climbing to her feet. Her husband follows suit, a bit surprised to hear his name, but following after his wife as they go to the kitchen. One of Jack’s younger sisters immediately breaks into a grin..

“Simon, you owe me five dollars,” the young girl says and the older boy groans, flopping back onto the carpet. Jack blushes bright red.

“Oi! You’re kids! You can’t be betting! Alli, you’re in fifth-grade, for goodness sakes!” Sean exclaims, and Mark giggles beside him as they sit down in the places of the adults.

“Simon thought you were just on some weird fashion thing. I just said gay. I won!” Allison crows. Jack buries his face into his hands, groaning in embarrassment.

“So, what was your name?” Simon asks Mark, turning his head to stare at the teenager.

“O-oh, Mark. I’m Mark,” he answers, startled to be addressed directly.

“Cool. Don’t take up too much of Sean’s time. He’s gotta hang with us too,” Simon says seriously before bumping a green game piece off the board.

“Sorry, you’re off,” he tells Mark with a grin. The teenager nods in uncertainty and Jack smiles, giving Mark’s hand a gentle squeeze. The game continues for several minutes with Jack and Mark both losing horribly since they had absolutely no clue what was going on and all the younger kids were out to get them.

“Sean, will you come into the kitchen please?” Shannon asks, leaning into the living room from the kitchen. Jack swallows and stands. Mark follows Jack with his eyes the whole way, before Allison tugs on his arm.

“Do you love Jacky back?” she asks, brows furrowed seriously. Mark smiles and chuckles.

“Yes, I love him very much. He’s helped me become a better person too,” he answers the little girl.

“Good, because I don’t wanna have to punch you or anything,” she says with a simple matter-of-factness as she turns back to the game. Mark bites his lip, trying to hide his smile of amusement at the little girl’s attitude. She was already a badass, and she was only ten. They continue to play, Mark picking up the slack for Sean in the meantime.

“Mark!” Jack calls from the kitchen a few minutes later, and immediately, Mark is on his feet, hurrying in. He sees the three seated at the table, an empty seat pulled out beside Jack. Mark tentatively sits down, watching everyone with a wary gaze. Jack’s eyes and nose are red, and his cheeks are glistening with tears streaks. Mark turns his focus solely to Jack, reaching out and offering his hand. Jack takes it and looks at Mark with a weak smile.

“Are you okay?” Mark mouths out, brows furrowed with concern for his boyfriend. Jack nods and wipes away a few more tears, sniffling. Mark frowns and turns to look at the parents.

He can’t hide the surprise that widens his eyes and lifts his eyebrows when he sees that they both have reddened eyes and glistening tears streaks on their cheeks. Sean’s mom is actively dabbing at more tears, and his dad is acting as if they don’t exist, hands intertwined in front of him in a very diplomatic pose.

“So,” Connor begins, clearing away the tightness in his throat. Mark holds Jack’s hand tighter. “This came as a huge shock. We’re… This isn’t what we grew up with. Being gay just wasn’t a thing. I mean, there was always that one queer”—Mark and Jack both wince—“But it wasn’t common like now. There wasn’t really a way to have a happy, stable, successful life if you were openly gay. I… I don’t know how to say this, but I would like to say that you seem like a good kid, and that you both are old enough to take responsibility for your own actions, and while I am struggling to reconcile my faith with this, I will always want to be a good dad, and a good man. I wanted to listen to what you had to say about your relationship,” Connor says. Mark nods thoughtfully once Connor is done. He takes a deep breath and holds Jack’s hand tighter.

“I… I’m on the Autism Spectrum, and I’ve really struggled with it. For a long time, I was a selective mute, only talking if absolutely necessary. I would get panic attacks if there was too much sensory input, including if I talked too much. That’s also why I’m bad with eye contact, sorry. Jack is the one who changed that. He talked to me when no one else would, he was the friend that I didn’t have. He has helped me become braver. Sean has brought me down from many panic attacks. He’s encouraged me to start talking more. I was the one who asked him out, because I wanted to show him how much he has helped me. I wanted to show him that I can talk more because of him. That was a while back. With his help, I’ve been able to start fixing old relationships that had fallen apart over the years. He helped me become stronger and braver. I was the one who told him he needed to come out to you all. He was being torn up by this. He was so scared that you were going to kick him out, or be mad at him, for something he can’t control. It’s who he is, and he was terrified of sharing that with you all. I pushed him to it, because it was eating him from the inside out,” Mark says quietly, eyes darting everywhere but at the adults as he talks. The room is silent for a moment as Connor and Shannon mull over his words.

“Sean, I’m sorry that I ever made you feel that way. It… It hurts to know that I made you scared. That ain’t my job. I’m supposed to be the one to fight off those fears, and I caused them,” Connor murmured, looking down in shame. Shannon sniffles and wipes away a few more tears.

“We love you, son. No matter what, we will always love you. This is scary for us, you know? We’ve always had this picture of you, and how your life is going to go, and who you are, and learning something like this shatters all that. I want you to know that we’re proud of you, and everything you’ve done, and being gay isn’t going to change that. It’s… It’s something we’ll have to get used to you, and I know for a fact we won’t be perfect, but times have changed, and even the Pope has accepted gay marriage, at least legally. As much as this scares us, we’ll do our best to be there for you,” she says, smiling tentatively at the two across the table.

“Mark, you seem like a great kid. Sean told us that he asked if you’d stay for dinner, and I think that sounds like a great idea. I’ve got to give you the dad-talk anyways,” Connor said, trying to lighten the mood. Jack flushes and groans.

“Papa, no, he doesn’t- if anything, I’m the one who needs the dad-talk,” Jack says and Mark shoots up in mock indignation.

“Whoa, whoa, when did we adjudicate that!” he exclaims, a broad grin on his face filled with so much relief that it hurts his cheeks. He knows exactly what Jack is going on about, and Mark knows exactly what he’s doing. They’re nowhere near that point yet, but he’s still going to play the part of a bratty bottom because it’s hilarious.

“I’m… going to choose to remain willfully ignorant,” Connor adjudicates, before clapping his hands and standing up.

“Alright boys, let’s go watch the U.T. game,” he says, heading to the living room to watch the football game. Jack and Mark share a look. Jack glares at Mark, and Mark gives him a cheeky grin.

“Yeah, boy, football,” he snarks before turning and follows Jack’s dad into the living room. While the conversation wasn’t the perfectly smooth coming-out where the parents laughed and smiled and said they were fine with it, it hadn’t been awful either. Ending the day with sitting through a football game and then having a big family meal certainly wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if anything in here is insensitive or poorly done. I've been writing two chapters a day for the past week, so burn-out and exhaustion is intense. Last chapter will be up tomorrow, and I will be making a few changes to chapter 66 as well tomorrow because I want to make Mark's intentions more clear and demonstrate that you should come out when you're ready, not because someone is pressuring you to. I wanted to show Mark caring for Jack and a character growth with him, as well as a little push for Sean, but not have it be so foreceful. I also accidentally posted chapter 66 twice (as chapter 65 and 66), so go back to read those if you got that mixed up. If you read it through as two different chapters, than we're good.
> 
> Okay, that's the housekeeping.  
> This will all be over tomorrow. I'm happy and sad, ngl.


	69. Chapter 69

The room is as familiar as ever, with the orchids on the table and the comfortable couch. Mark squeezes Jack’s hand tighter, and with his other, he waves to his therapist. The couple slips in and sits down on the sofa as the older man beams.

“Is this the lovely Jack I’ve heard so much about?” Mr. Josh asks with a grin, immediately sending both boys blushing.

“Yeah, it’s him. I just wanted you to meet him since I’ve talked about him so much, and now I’m ending our regular sessions,” Mark answers, turning to look at his boyfriend. Jack smirks and gives Mark a wink.

“Couldn’t resist talking about me?” he asks teasingly, and Mark nods in response, entirely genuine as he grins back and nods.

“Yup,” is all the boy manages before he has to blink a few times and shake his head. Jack takes the opportunity to turn and greet Mr. Josh.

“Hello, thank you for helping Mark out all these years. I’ve only been here for a short while compared to you watching his growth, and thank you for supporting us,” Jack says, brows furrowed in full seriousness. Mr. Josh smiles and gently flaps his hand.

“I learned long ago that judgment has no place in therapy and that whole-heartedly supporting and caring about your patients always has the best results. So far, I haven’t been wrong,” the man replies. Mark takes the opportunity to jump back in with the same whole-hearted enthusiasm.

“I talked with Amy and Ethan, and we’re working on fixing things. Then, I reached out to Tom! We talked and made up too,” Mark announces. His grin sprawls across his face, curling up like a warm gust of wind lazily coasting over a meadow, peaceful and calm.

“That’s fantastic, Mark! I’m so proud of you. Speaking with your old friends must have been intimidating, and reaching out to Tom was a massive step. It was incredibly courageous of you. Mark, you have matured so much, and it’s been a privilege to be there for your journey, talking through things and watching as you’ve grown into a happy, capable young man,” Mr. Josh says in response, leaning forward as his eyes sparkle with joy for his patient. There’s a sense of contentment in the room, calming hearts and settling full and satisfied in stomachs. The rest of the hour passes away is quiet chatter, reminiscing about earlier days and planning for future ones. Mark gives the man a hug before they leave, tearing up a bit. He ends a chapter of his life as he pulls away, but as the teenager turns and takes Jack’s hand, he reminds himself that he’s beginning a new one. Mark wipes his tears and smiles at the man who helped him through so much, thanking him one last time before slipping out the door with Sean and into his mother’s car. When they get home, she bustles in, checking on the roast that’s in the crockpot. It’s her off-day, and she’s finally able to get Sean over here to give him a good meal.

The boys take their time, deciding to go for a walk before dinner. The air is cold today, but not bad with the bright sun overhead and no breeze. As they talk, Jack still doing the majority with a few quiet interjections from Mark. They wander forward, ending up at a familiar park for Mark. He makes his way forward, walking the small ramp and pacing onto the mulch. Sean follows, hands stuffed into the pockets of the hoodie he stole from his boyfriend. Mark tests the platform before sitting down on the structure, turning his head to watch Jack approach.

“What prompted this little detour?” Jack queries, crouching down to sit beside Mark with a soft sigh as he leans back, resting his legs for a moment. Mark stares down at the mulch, leaning down to pick up one of the tawny wood chips.

“This is where I had my first panic attack,” Mark murmurs, turning over the piece between his fingers. Flecks of dirt stick to pads of fingers, and the edges press harshly to the sensitive skin, but Mark doesn’t mind. It’s a sensation filled with memories. Jack leans over and presses a soft kiss to his lover’s cheek, gently combing his fingers through Mark’s hair.

“When was that?” he asks, voice soft in the space between them.

“I was five, hid under this platform, got stuck, it was loud with kids running over me, and I panicked because I was thinking too fast,” Mark answers, turning and offering the woodchip to Jack. His boyfriend takes it, a perplexed look in his blue eyes.

“Sean, you slow those thoughts down, leaving me able to laugh, and listen, and talk in ways that I’ve struggled with for years,” Mark follows up, turning to stare out over the small field surrounding the playground, watching a car drive down the road nearby. “My mind is constantly spinning, and somehow, you adding in your loud, rambunctious talking is what calmed it down, giving it something to focus on. I haven’t been able to focus on anyone else but you, watching every little movement and craving every touch. I love you so much,” the teenager finishes, turning to watch Jack with a gaze akin to a puppy watching a plate of bacon, hopeful and earnest.

Sean flushes and smiles, “Well, if you’re confessing your undying love for me, I don’t want to be outdone,” he quips, thinking for a moment before continuing. “The calm that you bring to my life is wonderful. You bring peace to everything, even if your own mind is racing. Mark, you are so gentle with everything, calm and sweet. Even when I’m swamped with work or struggling with deep existential thoughts, you know what to do. You’re so brave, and I strive to be more like you every day because I love you and admire your courage,” Jack divulges, keeping his eyes on Mark as he watches the boy flush bright red. Mark whines and turns, hiding his face in Jack’s chest as he wraps his arms around him.

“That was too nice,” he complains, and Jack snorts in amusement.

“There’s no such thing, baby,” he answers, resting delicate fingers on Mark’s chin to tug his gaze up before connecting their lips in a tender kiss. As the two pull away, Jack rests his forehead on Mark’s, closing his eyes and cradling his lover close.

“I love you,” they both say in unison, eyes flying open as they jerk back in surprise before laughing happily in each other’s arms. Everything around them is frozen, the winter air is chilled around them, but the two teenagers are warm together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. She's done. This has been an incredible journey, and I'm so proud of the work I've put into this book. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed every word.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> Abby

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my lovelies!  
> This book deals with depression and anxiety. Please take care if you are sensitive to these issues.
> 
> Like what I do? Buy me a drink!  
> ko-fi.com/abbys_chatty
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> ~Abby


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